BORN 


I-A-R-WYLLIE 


OF  CALIF.  LIBWAttt.  LHS 


Miss  Gary  has  consented  to  become  my  wife."     Page 


HE  NATIVE  BORN 


By 

\ 
I.  A.  R.  WYLIE 


With  Illustrations  by 
JOHN  NEWTON  HOWITT 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1910 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


PRESS  OF 

BRAUNWORTH  &  CO. 

BOOKBINDERS  AND  PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN,  N.  Y. 


PREFACE 

In  earlier  days  a  preface  to  a  novel  with  no  direct  his- 
torical source  always  seemed  to  me  somewhat  out  of  place, 
since  I  believed  that  the  author  could  be  indebted  solely  to 
his  own  imagination.  I  have  learned,  however,  that  even 
in  a  novel  pur  sang  it  is  possible  to  owe  much  to  others,  and 
I  now  take  the  opportunity  which  the  despised  preface 
offers  to  pay  my  debt — inadequately  it  is  true — to  Mr. 
Hughes  Massie,  whose  enthusiastic  help  in  the  launching 
of  this,  my  first  serious  literary  effort,  I  shall  always  hold 

in  grateful  remembrance. 

I.  A.  R.  W. 


May  9th,  1910 

213S8R7 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    WHICH  Is  A  PROLOGUE i 

II    THE  DANCING  Is  RESUMED 10 

III  NEHAL  SINGH       28 

IV  CIRCE       38 

V    ARCHIBALD  TRAVERS  PLAYS  BRIDGE 54 

VI    BREAKING  THE  BARRIER 72 

VII  THE  SECOND  GENERATION 83 

VIII    THE  IDEAL 92 

IX    CHECKED 109 

X    AT  THE  GATES  OF  A  GREAT  PEOPLE 123 

XI    WITHIN  THE  GATES 137 

XII    THE  WHITE  HAND       152 

XIII  THE  ROAD  CLEAR 166 

XIV  IN  WHICH  MANY  THINGS  ARE  BROKEN  .    .    .    .  180 
XV    THE  GREAT  HEALER       192 

XVI    FATE 211 

XVII    FALSE  LIGHT 226 

BOOK  II 

I    BUILDING  THE  CATHEDRAL 245 

II     CATASTROPHE 265 

III  A  FAREWELL 279 

IV  STAFFORD  INTERVENES 293 

V    MURDER       306 

VI    CLEARING  AWAY  THE  RUBBISH 319 

VII    IN  THE  TEMPLE  OF  VISHNU 335 

VIII  FACE  TO  FACE 350 

IX    HALF-LIGHT 371 

X    TRAVERS 383 

XI    IN  THE  HOUR  OF  NEED 393 

XII    His  OWN  PEOPLE 403 

XIII    ENVOI       412 


THE  NATIVE  BORN 


BOOK  I 


THE  NATIVE  BORN 

CHAPTER  I 


THE  woman  lying  huddled  on  the  couch  turned 
her  face  to  the  wall  and  covered  it  with  her  hands 
in  a  burst  of  uncontrollable  horror. 

"Oh,  that  dreadful  light!"  she  moaned.  "If  it 
would  only  go  out!  It  will  send  me  mad.  Oh,  if  it 
would  only  go  out — only  go  out !" 

Her  companion  made  no  immediate  answer.  She 
stood  by  the  wall,  her  shoulders  slightly  hunched, 
her  hands  clasped  before  her  in  an  attitude  of  fixed, 
sullen  defiance.  .What  her  features  expressed  it 
was  impossible  to  tell,  since  they  were  hidden  by 
the  deep  shadow  in  which  she  had  taken  up  her  po- 
sition. The  rest  of  the  apartment  was  lit  with  a 
grey,  ghostly  light,  the  reflection  from  the  court- 
yard, in  part  visible  through  the  open  doorway,  and 
which  lay  bathed  in  all  the  brilliancy  of  a  full  In- 
dian moon. 

"When  the  light  goes  out,  it  will  mean  that  the 
end  has  come,"  she  said  at  last.  "Do  you  know  that, 
Christine?" 

"Yes,  I  know  it,"  the  other  answered  piteously; 
"but  that's  what  I  want — the  end.  I  am  not  afraid 
to  die.  I  know  Harry  will  be  there.  He  will  not 

I 


2  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

let  it  be  too  hard  for  me.  It's  the  suspense  I  can 
not  bear.  The  suspense  is  worse  than  death.  I 
have  died  a  dozen  times  to-night,  and  suffered  as  I 
am  sure  God  will  not  let  us  suffer." 

Margaret  Caruthers  bent  over  the  cowering  fig- 
ure with  the  sympathy  which  education  provides 
when  the  heart  fails  to  perform  its  office.  There 
was,  indeed,  little  tenderness  in  the  hand  which 
passed  lightly  over  Christine  Stafford's  feverish 
forehead. 

"You  give  God  credit  for  a  good  deal,"  she  said 
indifferently.  "If  the  light  troubles  you,  shall  I  shut 
the  door?" 

Christine  sprang  half  upright. 

"No !"  she  cried  sharply.  "No !  I  should  still  see 
it.  Even  when  I  cover  my  face — so — I  can  still  see 
it  flickering.  And  then  there  is  the  darkness,  and 
in  the  darkness,  faces — little  John's  face.  Oh,  my 
little  fellow,  what  will  become  of  you !"  She  began 
to  cry  softly,  but  no  longer  with  fear.  Love  and 
pity  had  struggled  up  out  of  the  chaos  of  her  de- 
spair, rising  above  even  the  mighty  instinct  of  self- 
preservation.  Margaret's  hand  ceased  from  its  me- 
chanical act  of  consolation. 

"Be  thankful  that  he  is  not  here,"  she  said. 

"I  am  thankful — but  the  thought  of  him  makes 
death  harder.  It  will  hurt  him  so." 

"No  one  is  indispensable  in  this  world." 

Christine  turned  her  haggard,  tear-stained  face  to 
the  moonlight. 

"How  hard  you  are !"  she  said  wonderingly.  "You, 
too,  have  your  little  girl  to  think  of,  but  even 
with  the  end  so  close — even  knowing  that  we  shall 


WHICH  IS  A  PROLOGUE  3 

never  see  our  loved  ones  again — you  are  still  hard." 
"I  have  no  loved  ones,  and  life  has  taught  me  to 
be  hard.  Why  should"  death  soften  me?"  was  the 
cold  answer.  Both  women  relapsed  into  silence. 
Always  strangers  to  each  other,  a  common  danger 
had  not  served  to  break  down  the  barrier  between 
them.  Christine  now  lay  quiet  and  calm,  her  hands 
clasped,  her  lips  moving  slightly,  as  though  in 
prayer.  Her  companion  had  resumed  her  former 
position  against  the  wall,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  open 
doorway,  beyond  which  the  grey  lake  of  moonlight 
spread  itself  into  the  shadow  of  the  walls.  In  the 
distance  a  single  point  of  fire  flickered  uneasily, 
winking  like  an  evil,  threatening  eye.  So  long  as  it 
winked  at  them,  so  long  their  lives  were  safe.  With 
its  extermination  they  knew  must  come  their  own. 
Hitherto,  save  for  the  murmur  of  the  two  voices, 
a  profound  hush  had  weighed  ominously  in  the 
heavy  air.  Now  suddenly  a  cry  went  up,  pitched  on 
a  high  note  and  descending  by  semitones,  like  a  dy- 
ing wind,  into  a  moan.  It  was  caught  up  instantly 
and  repeated  so  close  that  it  seemed  to  the  two 
women  to  have  sprung  from  the  very  ground  be- 
neath their  feet.  Christine  started  up. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  she  muttered.  "Oh,  my  God!" 
She  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  but  the 
other  gave  no  sign  of  either  fear  or  interest.  There 
followed  a  brief  pause,  in  which  the  imagination 
might  have  conjured  up  unseen  forces  gathering 
themselves  together  for  a  final  onslaught.  It  came 
at  last,  like  a  cry,  suddenly,  amidst  a  wild  outburst 
of  yells,  screams,  and  the  intermittent  crack  of  re- 
volvers fired  at  close  quarters.  Pandemonium  had 


4  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

been  let  loose  on  the  other  side  of  the  silver  lake, 
but  the  silver  lake  itself  remained  placid  and  un- 
troubled. Only  the  red  eye  winked  more  vigorous- 
ly, as  though  its  warning  had  become  more  imper- 
ative. 

Christine  Stafford  clung  to  a  pair  of  unrespon- 
sive hands,  which  yielded  with  an  almost  speaking 
reluctance  to  her  embrace. 

"You  think  there  is  no  hope?"  she  pleaded. 
"None?  You  know  what  Harry  said.  If  the  regi- 
ment got  back  in  time — " 

"The  regiment  will  not  get  back  in  time,"  Mar- 
garet Caruthers  interrupted.  "There  are  ten  men 
guarding  the  gate  against  Heaven  knows  how  many 
thousand.  Do  you  expect  a  miracle?  No,  no.  We 
are  a  people  who  dance  best  at  the  edge  of  a  crater, 
and  if  a  few,  like  ourselves,  get  swallowed  up  now 
and  again,  it  can  not  be  helped.  It  is  the  penalty." 

"If  only  Harry  would  come !"  Christine  moaned, 
heedless  of  this  cold  philosophy.  "But  he  will  keep 
his  promise,  won't  he?  He  won't  let  us  fall  into 
those  cruel  hands?  You  remember  what  happened 
at  Calcutta—" 

"Hush !  Don't  frighten  yourself  and  me !"  ex- 
claimed Margaret  impatiently.  "Does  it  comfort 
you  to  hold  my  hand?  Well,  hold  it,  then.  How 
strange  you  are !  I  thought  you  weren't  afraid." 

"I  shan't  be  when  the  time  comes — but  it's  so 
very  lonely.  Don't  you  feel  it?  Are  you  made  of 
stone  ?" 

Margaret  Caruthers  set  her  teeth  hard. 

"I  would  to  God  I  were!"  she  said.  All  at  once 
she  wrenched  her  hand  free  and  pointed  with  it. 


WHICH  IS  A  PROLOGUE  5 

Her  arm,  stretched  out  into  the  light,  had  a  curious, 
ghostly  effect.  "Look !"  she  cried. 

The  red  eye  winked  rapidly  in  succession,  once, 
twice,  three  times,  and  then  closed — this  time  for 
ever.  An  instant  later  two  dark  spots  darted  out 
into  the  brightly  lighted  space  and  came  at  headlong 
pace  toward  them.  Christine  sprang  to  her  feet, 
and  the  two  women  clung  to  each  other,  obeying 
for  that  one  moment  the  instinct  which  can  bind 
devil  to  saint.  But  it  was  an  English  voice  which 
greeted  them  from  the  now  darkened  doorway. 

"It's  all  over !"  Steven  Caruthers  said,  entering 
with  his  companion  and  slamming  the  door  sharp- 
ly to.  "We  have  five  minutes  more.  Mackay  has 
promised  to  keep  them  off  just  so  long.  Stafford, 
see  to  your  wife !"  He  spoke  brutally,  in  a  voice 
choked  with  dust  and  pain.  The  room  was  now  in 
pitch  darkness.  Harry  Stafford  felt  his  way  across, 
his  arms  outstretched. 

"Christine !"  he  called. 

She  came  to  him  at  once,  with  a  step  as  firm  and 
steady  as  a  man's. 

"Harry !"  she  cried,  her  voice  ringing  with  an  al- 
most incredulous  joy.  "Oh,  my  darling!" 

He  caught  her  to  him  and  felt  how  calm  her  pulse 
had  become. 

"Are  you  afraid,  my  wife?" 

"Not  now.    I  am  so  happy!" 

He  knew,  strange  though  it  seemed,  that  this  was 
true  and  natural,  because  her  love  was  stronger 
than  life  or  the  fear  of  death. 

"Do  you  trust  me  absolutely,  Christine?" 

"Absolutely !" 


6  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

"Give  me  both  your  hands — in  my  one  hand — so. 
Kiss  me,  sweetheart." 

In  the  same  instant  that  his  lips  touched  hers  he 
lifted  his  right  disengaged  hand,  and  something 
icy-cold  brushed  past  her  temple.  She  clung  to  him. 

"Not  yet,  Harry!  Not  yet!  Oh,  don't  think  I 
don't  understand.  I  do,  and  I  am  glad.  If  things 
had  gone  differently  the  time  must  have  come  when 
one  of  us  would  have  been  left  lonely.  Now,  we 
are  going  together.  What  does  it  matter  if  it  is  a 
little  sooner  than  we  hoped?  Only,  not  yet — just 
one  minute !  We  have  time.  Do  not  let  us  waste 
it.  Let  us  kneel  down  and  say  'Our  Father/  and 
then — for  little  John — "  Her  voice  broke.  "After- 
ward— when  you  think  fit,  husband,  I  shall  be  ready." 

He  put  his  arm  about  her,  and  they  knelt  down 
side  by  side  at  the  little  couch.  Christine  prayed 
aloud,  and  he  followed  her,  his  deeper  voice  hushed 
to  a  whisper. 

The  two  other  occupants  of  the  room  did  not 
heed  them.  They,  too,  had  found  each  other.  At 
her  husband's  entrance  Margaret  Caruthers  had 
crept  back  to  the  wall  and  had  remained  there  mo- 
tionless, not  answering  to  his  sharp,  imperative  call. 
He  groped  around  the  room,  and  when  at  length 
his  hands  touched  her  face,  both  drew  back  as  one 
total  stranger  from  another. 

"Why  did  you  not  answer?"  he  asked  hoarsely. 
"Are  you  not  aware  that  any  moment  may  be  our 
last?" 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"I  have  something  I  wish  to  say  to  you,  Margaret, 
before  the  time  comes." 


WHICH  IS  A  PROLOGUE  7 

"I  am  listening." 

"I  wish  to  say  if  at  any  period  in  our  unfortunate 
married  life  I  have  done  you  wrong,  I  am  sorry." 

She  made  no  answer. 

"I  ask  your  forgiveness." 

"I  forgive  you." 

The  sound  of  firing  outside  had  grown  fainter, 
the  shrieks  louder,  more  exultant,  mingling  like  an 
unearthly  savage  chorus  with  the  hushed  voices  by 
the  couch. 

— "Thy  will  be  done — "  prayed  Christine  valiant- 

iy- 

Margaret  Caruthers  lifted  her  head  and  laughed. 

"Don't  laugh !"  her  husband  burst  out.  "Pray 
now,  if  you  have  ever  prayed  in  your  life.  You 
have  need  of  prayers."  He  lifted  his  arm  as  he 
spoke ;  but,  as  though  she  guessed  his  intention, 
she  sprang  out  of  his  reach. 

"No !"  she  said,  in  a  voice  concentrated  with  pas- 
sion. "I  am  not  going  to  die  like  that.  Stafford 
can  shoot  his  wife  down  like  a  piece  of  blind  cattle 
if  he  thinks  fit — but  not  you.  I  won't  die  by.  your 
hand,  Steven.  I  hate  you  too  much." 

"Hush  !"  he  exclaimed.  "The  account  between  us 
is  settled." 

"Do  you  think  I  can  begin  to  love  you  just  be- 
cause we  are  both  about  to  die?" 

"You  are  my  wife,"  he  answered,  grasping  her 
by  the  wrists.  "There  are  things  worse  than  death, 
and  from  them  I  shall  shield  you,  whether  you  will 
or  not." 

"Is  it  not  enough  that  you  have  taken  my  life 
once?"  she  retorted. 


8  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

"What  do  you  mean?    How  dare  you  say  that!" 

"I  say  it  because  it  is  true.    I  have  never  lived — 

never.    You  killed  me  years  ago — all  that  was  best 

in  me.    Save  your  soul  from  a  second  murder." 

"If  you  live,  do  you  know  what  may  lie  before 


you 


"You  talk  of  things  'worse  than  death.'  What 
shame,  what  misery  could  be  worse  than  the  years 
spent  at  your  side?" 

"You  are  mad,  Margaret.  I  shall  pay  no  attention 
to  you.  I  must  save  you  against  your  will." 

All  through  the  hurried  dialogue  neither  had 
spoken  above  a  whisper.  Even  in  that  moment 
they  obeyed  the  habit  of  a  lifetime,  hiding  hatred 
and  bitterness  beneath  a  mask  of  apparent  calm. 
Without  a  sound,  but  with  a  frantic  strength,  Mar- 
garet wrenched  herself  free. 

"Leave  me  to  my  own  fate!"  she  demanded,  in 
the  same  passionate  undertone.  "You  have  ceased 
to  be  responsible  for  me." 

He  made  one  last  effort  to  hold  her.  In  the  same 
instant  the  firing  ceased  altogether.  There  followed 
the  roar  and  crash  of  bursting  timber,  the  patter- 
ing of  naked  feet,  the  fanatic  yells  drawing  every 
second  nearer. 

"Margaret!"  he  cried  wildly,  holding  out  his  re- 
volver in  the  darkness.  "If  not  at  my  hands,  then 
at  your  own.  Save  yourself — " 

"I  shall  save  myself,  have  no  fear !"  she  answered, 
with  a  bitter,  terrible  laugh. 

From  the  couch  Christine  Stafford's  voice  rose 
peacefully: 

"Lord,  into  Thy  hands  I  commend  rny  spirit!" 


WHICH  IS  A  PROLOGUE  9 

Another  voice  answered,  "Amen!"  There  was  the 
report  of  a  revolver  and  a  sudden,  startling  stillness. 
It  lasted  only  a  breathing  space.  Furious  shoulders 
hurled  themselves  against  the  frail,  weakly  barred 
door.  It  cracked,  bulged  inward,  with  a  bursting, 
tearing  sound,  yielded.  The  moonlight  flooded  into 
the  little  room,  throwing  up  into  bold  relief  the 
three  upright  figures  and  the  little  heap  that  knelt 
motionless  by  the  couch. 

The  crowd  of  savage  faces  hesitated,  faltering  an 
instant  before  the  sahibs  who  yesterday  had  been 
their  lords  and  masters.  Then  the  sahibs  fired.  It 
was  all  that  was  needed.  The  room  filled.  There 
was  one  stifled  groan — no  more  than  that.  No  cry 
for  mercy,  no  whining. 

Little  by  little  the  room  emptied  again.  The  cries 
and  bloodthirsty  screams  of  triumphant  vengeance 
died  slowly  in  the  distance,  the  grey  moonlight  re- 
sumed its  peaceful  sovereignty.  Only  here  and 
there  were  dark  stains  its  silver  could  not  wash 
away. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  DANCING  IS  RESUMED. 

"OH,  I  love  India — adore  it,  simply!"  Mrs.  Gary 
exclaimed,  in  the  tone  of  a  person  who,  usually 
self-controlled,  finds  himself  overwhelmed  by  the 
force  of  his  own  enthusiasm.  "There  is  something 
so  mystic,  so  enthralling  about  it,  don't  you  think? 
I  always  feel  as  though  I  were  wandering  through 
a  chapter  of  the  Arabian  Nights  full  of  gorgeous 
princes,  wicked  robbers,  genii,  or  whatever  you  call 
them.  Isn't  it  so  with  you,  Mrs.  Carmichael?" 

Her  hostess,  a  thin,  alert  little  woman  with  a 
bony,  weather-beaten  face,  cast  an  anxious  glance 
at  the  rest  of  her  guests  scattered  about  the  garden. 

"There  aren't  any  robbers  about  here — except  my 
cook,'*  she  said  prosaically.  "My  husband  wouldn't 
allow  such  a  fhing  in  his  department,  and  in  mine 
he  is  no  good  at  all.  As  for  the  princes,  we  don't 
see  anything  of  the  only  one  this  region  boasts  of. 
He  may  be  gorgeous,  but  I  really  can  not  say  for 
certain." 

"Ah !"  said  Mrs.  Gary,  with  a  placid  smile.  "You 
have  been  in  fairyland  too  long,  dear  Mrs.  Carmi- 
chael. That's  what's  the  matter  with  you.  You 
are  beginning  to  look  upon  it  as  a  very  ordinary, 
every-day  place.  If  you  only  knew  what  it  is  to 
come  to  it  with  a  virgin  heart  and  mind — thirsting 

10 


THE  DANCING  IS  RESUMED  n 

for  impressions,  as  it  were.  That  is  how  we  feel,  dc 
we  not,  Beatrice?"  She  half  turned  to  the  girl  stand- 
ing at  her  side,  as  though  seeking  to  draw  her  into 
the  conversation. 

"It  is  indeed  new  for  me"  the  latter  answered 
shortly,  and  with  slight  emphasis  on  the  personal 
pronoun. 

"I  was  about  to  remark  that  this  is  scarcely  your 
first  visit  to  India,"  Mrs.  Carmichael  put  in.  "I 
understood  that  your  late  husband  had  a  govern- 
ment appointment  somewhere  in  the  South?" 

Mrs.  Gary's  heavy  face  flushed,  though  whether 
with  heat  or  annoyance  it  was  not  easy  to  judge. 

"Of  course — a  very  excellent  appointment,  too — 
but  the  place  and  the  people !"  She  became  con- 
fidential and  her  voice  sank,  though  beyond  her 
daughter  there  was  no  one  within  hearing.  "Be- 
tween you  and  me,  Mrs.  Carmichael,  the  people 
were  dreadful.  You  know,  I  am  not  snobbish — in- 
deed I  must  confess  to  quite  democratic  tendencies, 
which  my  family  always  greatly  deplores — but  I 
really  couldn't  stand  the  people.  I  had  to  go  back 
to  England  with  Beatrice.  The  place  was  filled 
with  subordinate  railway  officials.  Don't  you  hate 
subordinates,  dear  Mrs.  Carmichael?" 

Mrs.  Carmichael  stared,  during  which  process 
her  eyes  happened  to  fall  on  Beatrice  Gary's  half- 
averted  face.  She  was  surprised  to  find  that  the 
somewhat  thin  lips  were  smiling — though  not  agree- 
ably. 

"I  really  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  'subordi- 
nates,' "  Mrs.  Carmichael  said,  in  her  uncompro- 
mising way.  "Most  people  are  subordinates  at 


12  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

some  time  or  other.  My  husband  was  a  lieutenant 
once.  I  don't  remember  objecting  to  him.  At  any 
rate,"  she  continued  hastily,  as  though  to  cut  the 
conversation  short,  "I  hope  you  will  like  the  people 
here." 

"I'm  sure  I  shall.  A  military  circle  is  always  so 
delightful.  That  is  what  I  said  to  Beatrice  when  I 
felt  that  I  must  revisit  the  scene  of  my  girlish  days. 
'We  must  go  somewhere  where  there  is  military.' 
Of  course,  we  might  have  gone  to  Simla — I  have 
influential  friends  there,  you  know — but  I  wanted 
my  girl  to  see  a  real  bit  of  genuine  India,  and  Simla 
is  so  modern.  Really  a  great  pity,  I  think.  I  am  so 
passionately  fond  of  color  and  picturesqueness — 
comfort  is  nothing  to  me.  As  my  husband  used  to 
say,  'Oh,  Mary,  you  are  always  putting  your  artis- 
tic feelings  before  material  necessities.'  Poor  fel- 
low, he  used  to  miss  his  creature  comforts  some- 
times, I  fear." 

Her  laugh,  painfully  resembling  a  giggle,  inter- 
rupted her  own  garrulity,  which  was  finally  put  to 
an  end  by  a  fresh  arrival.  A  slight,  daintily-clad 
figure  had  detached  itself  from  a  group  of  guests 
and  came  running  toward  them.  Mrs.  Carmichael's 
deeply  lined,  somewhat  severe  face  lighted  up. 

"That  is  my  husband's  ward,  Lois  Caruthers," 
she  said.  "She  has  been  with  me  all  her  life,  prac- 
tically. As  you  are  so  fond  of  genuine  India,  you 
must  let  her  show  you  over  the  place.  She  knows 
all  the  dirtiest,  and  I  suppose  most  interesting  cor- 
ners, with  their  exact  history." 

"Delightful !"  murmured  Mrs.  Gary,  with  a  gra- 
cious nod  of  her  plumed  headgear.  Nevertheless, 


THE  DANCING  IS  RESUMED  13 

she  studied  the  small  figure  and  animated  features 
of  the  new-comer  with  a  critical  severity  not  alto- 
gether in  accordance  with  her  next  remark,  uttered, 
apparently  under  pressure  of  the  same  irresistible 
enthusiasm,  in  an  audible  side  whisper:  "What  a 
sweet  face — so  piquant !" 

An  adjective  is  a  pliable  weapon,  and,  in  the 
hands  of  a  woman,  can  be  made  to  mean  anything 
under  the  sun.  Mrs.  Gary's  "piquant" — pronounced 
in  a  manner  that  was  neither  French  nor  English, 
but  a  startling  mixture  of  both — had  a  background 
to  it  of  charitable  patronage.  It  was  meant,  with- 
out doubt,  to  be  a  varnished  edition  of  "plain,"  per- 
haps even  "ugly,"  though  Lois  Caruthers  deserved 
neither  insinuation.  Possibly  too  small  in  build, 
she  was  yet  graceful,  and  there  was  a  lithe,  elastic 
energy  in  her  movements  which  drew  attention  to 
her  even  among  more  imposing  figures.  Possibly, 
also,  she  was  too  dark  for  the  English  ideal.  Her 
black  hair  and  large  brown  eyes,  together  with  the 
unrelieved  pallor  of  her  complexion,  gave  her  ap- 
pearance something  that  was  exotic  but  not  un- 
pleasing.  Enfin,  as  most  people  admitted,  she  had  her 
charm;  and  her  moods,  which  ranged  from  the  most 
light-hearted  gaiety  to  the  deepest  gravity,  could 
be  equally  irresistible.  She  was  light-hearted 
enough  now,  however,  as  she  smiled  from  one  to  the 
other,  including  mother  and  daughter  in  her  friendly 
greeting,  though  as  yet  both  were  strangers  to 
her. 

"I  have  come  to  fetch  you,  Aunt  Harriet,"  she 
said,  addressing  Mrs.  Carmichael.  "Mr.  Travers 
has  got  some  great  scheme  on  hand  which  he  will 


14  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

only  disclose  in  your  presence.  We  are  all  gasping 
with  curiosity.  Will  you  please  come?" 

Mrs.  Carmichael  nodded. 

"I  will  come  at  once,"  she  said.  "I'm  sure  it's 
only  one  of  Mr.  Travers'  breakneck  schemes,  but 
they  are  always  amusing  to  listen  to.  Lois,  come 
and  be  introduced.  My  adopted  niece — Mrs.  Gary 
Miss  Gary." 

They  shook  hands. 

"Lois,  when  there  is  time,  I  want  you  to  do  the 
honors  of  Marut.  Miss  Gary  especially  has  as  yet 
seen  nothing,  and  there  is  a  great  deal  of  interest.  You 
know — "  turning  to  her  visitors — "Marut  is  supposed 
to  have  been  the  hotbed  of  the  last  rising," 

"Indeed !"  murmured  Mrs.  Gary  vaguely.  "How 
delightful !" 

Lois  Caruthers  laughed,  not  without  a  shadow 
of  bitterness. 

"It  was  hardly  delightful  at  the  time,  I  should 
imagine,"  she  observed.  "But  what  there  is  to  see 
I  shall  be  very  glad  to  show  you.  Will  any  day 
suit  you?" 

"Oh,  yes,  any  day,"  Beatrice  Gary  assented, 
speaking  almost  for  the  first  time.  "I  have  nothing 
to  do  here  from  morning  to  night." 

"That  will  soon  change,"  Lois  said,  walking  by 
her  side.  "I  am  always  busy,  either  playing  tennis, 
or  riding,  or  getting  up  some  entertainment.  The 
difficulty  is  to  find  time  to  rest." 

"You  must  be  a  very  much  sought-after  person," 
Beatrice  observed,  in  the  tone  of  a  person  who  is  mak- 
ing a  graceful  compliment.  The  hint  of  irony,  how- 
ever, was  unmistakable. 


THE  DANCING  IS  RESUMED  15 

"I  am  not  more  sought  after  than  any  one  else," 
Lois  returned,  unruffled.  "Every  one  has  to  help  in 
the;  work  of  frivolity." 

"I  shall  be  rather  out  of  it,  then,"  Beatrice  said 
coolly.  "I  am  not  amusing." 

"It  is  quite  sufficient  to  be  willing,  good-natured 
and  good-humored,"  Lois  answered. 

They  had  by  this  time  reached  the  group  under 
the  trees,  where  Mrs.  Carmichael  and  her  com- 
panion had  already  arrived,  under  the  escort  of  a 
tall,  stoutly  built  man,  who  was  talking  and  apparently 
explaining  with  great  vigor.  As  Lois  entered  the  circle, 
he  glanced  up  and  smiled  at  her,  revealing  a  handsome, 
cheerful  face,  singularly  fresh-colored  in  comparison 
with  the  deep  tan  of  the  other  men. 

"That  is  Mr.  Travers,"  Lois  explained.  "He  is 
a  bank  director  or  something  in  Madras,  and  has 
been  on  a  long  business  visit  north.  He  is  awfully 
clever  and  popular,  and  gets  up  everything." 

"Rich,  I  suppose?" 

Lois  glanced  up  at  her  companion.  The  beautiful 
profile  and  the  tone  of  the  remark  seemed  incongru- 
ous. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  rather  abruptly.  "He 
has  four  polo  ponies.  Nobody  else  has  more  than 
two." 

"Do  you  calculate  wealth  by  polo  ponies,  then?" 

Lois  laughed. 

"Yes,  we  do  pretty  well,"  she  said — "that  is,  when 
we  bother  about  such  things  at  all.  Most  people 
are  poor,  and  if  they  aren't,  they  have  to  live  be- 
yond their  income,  so  it  comes  to  the  same  in  the 
end." 


16  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

"Everybody  looks  cheerful  enough,"  Beatrice 
Gary  observed.  "I  always  thought  poverty  and 
worry  went  together." 

"Who  is  that  talking  about  poverty  and  worry?" 
asked  a  voice  behind  them.  "Is  it  you,  Miss  Caru- 
thers?  If  so,  I  shall  arraign  you  as  a  disturber  of 
the  peace.  Who  wants  to  be  bothered  with  the 
memory  of  his  empty  purse  on  such  a  lovely  day?" 

Lois  turned  with  a  smile  to  the  new-comer. 

"No,  I  am  innocent,  Captain  Stafford,"  she  said. 
"It  was  Miss  Gary  who  brought  up  the  terms  you 
object  to." 

"Well,  won't  you  introduce  me,  then,  so  that  I 
can  express  my  displeasure  direct  to  the  culprit?" 

The  ceremony  of  introduction  was  gone  through, 
on  Beatrice  Gary's  side  with  a  sudden  change  of 
manner.  Hitherto  cold,  indifferent,  slightly  super- 
cilious, she  now  relaxed  into  a  gentleness  that  was 
almost  appealing. 

"This  is  a  new  world  for  me,"  she  said,  looking 
up  into  Captain  Stafford's  amused  face,  "and  I  have 
so  many  questions  to  ask  that  I  am  afraid  of  turn- 
ing into  a  mark  of  interrogation,  or — as  you  said — 
a  disturber  of  the  peace." 

"You  won't  ask  questions  long,"  he  answered, 
with  a  wise  shake  of  the  head.  "Nobody  does. 
Wherever  English  people  go  they  take  their  whole 
paraphernalia  with  them ;  and  you  will  find  that, 
with  a  few  superficial  differences,  Marut  is  no  more 
or  less  than  a  snug  little  English  suburb.  A  little 
more  freedom  of  intercourse — a  little  less  Philistin- 
ism, perhaps — but  the  foundations  are  the  same.  As 
to  India  itself,  one  soon  learns  to  forget  all  about  it." 


THE  DANCING  IS  RESUMED  17 

He  then  turned  to  Lois,  who  was  intent  on  watch- 
ing Mr.  Travers. 

"You  weren't  on  the  race-course  this  morning," 
he  said  in  an  undertone.  "I  missed  you.  Why  did 
you  not  come?" 

"I  couldn't,"  she  said.  "There  was  too  much  to 
be  done.  We  are  rather  short  of  servants  just  now, 
for  reasons — well,  that,  according  to  you,  ought  not 
to  be  mentioned  on  a  fine  day." 

He  laughed,  but  not  as  he  had  hitherto  done. 
There  was  another  tone  in  his  voice,  warmer,  more 
confidential.  It  attracted  Beatrice  Gary's  attention, 
and  she  looked  curiously  from  Lois  to  the  man  be- 
side her.  About  thirty-five,  with  a  passably  good 
figure,  irregular,  if  honest,  features,  and  an  expres- 
sion usually  somewhat  grave,  he  made  no  preten- 
sions to  any  exterior  advantage.  He  could  appar- 
ently be  gay,  as  now,  but  his  gaiety  did  not  conceal 
the  fact  that  it  was  unusual.  Altogether,  he  had 
nothing  about  him  which  appealed  to  her,  but  Bea- 
trice Gary  was  inclined  to  resent  Lois'  obvious  in- 
timacy with  him  as  something  which  accentuated 
her  own  isolation. 

"Can  you  make  out  what  Mr.  Travers  is  saying?" 
Lois  asked,  turning  suddenly  to  her.  "I  can't  hear 
a  word,  and  I'm  sure  it's  awfully  interesting.  Cap- 
tain Stafford,  do  you  know?" 

"I  can  guess,"  he  answered,  half  smiling.  "When 
Travers  has  a  suggestion  to  make,  it  usually  means 
that  some  one  has  to  stump  up." 

There  was  a  general  laugh.   Travers  looked  around. 

"Some  one  has  accused  me  falsely,"  he  declared. 
"I  have  a  prophetic  sense  of  injury." 


i8  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

"On  the  contrary,  that  is  what  I  am  suffering 
from,"  Stafford  retorted.  "Since  hearing  that  you 
have  a  new  scheme,  I  have  been  hastily  reckoning 
how  many  weeks'  leave  I  shall  have  to  sacrifice  to  pay 
for  it." 

Travers  shook  his  head. 

"As  usual — wrong,  my  dear  Captain,"  he  said. 
"My  scheme  has  two  parts.  The  first  part  is  known 
to  you  all,  though  for  the  benefit  of  weak  memo- 
ries, I  will  repeat  it.  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  in  this 
Station  we  have  the  honor  of  being  protected  from 
the  malice  of  the  aborigine  by  two  noble  regiments. 
We  count,  moreover,  at  least  thirty  of  the  fair  sex 
and  forty  miscellaneous  persons,  such  as  miserable 
civilians  like  myself,  and  children.  Hitherto,  we 
have  been  content  to  meet  at  odd  times  and  odd 
places.  When  hospitality  has  run  dry,  we  have  re- 
sorted to  a  shed-like  structure  dignified  with  the 
name  of  club.  Personally,  I  call  it  a  disgrace,  which 
should  at  once  be  rectified." 

"I  have  already  contributed  my  mite !"  protested 
a  young  subaltern  from  the  British  regiment. 

"I  know;  so  has  everybody.  With  strenuous  ef- 
forts I  have  collected  the  sum  of  five  hundred  ru- 
pees. That  won't  do.  We  require  at  least  four 
times  that  sum.  Consequently,  we  must  have  a 
patron." 

"The  second  part  of  your  programme  concerns 
the  patron,  then?"  Captain  Webb  inquired,  with  an 
aspect  of  considerable  relief.  "Not  yourself,  by  any 
chance?" 

"Certainly  not.  If  I  had  any  noble  inclinations  of 
that  sort  I  should  have  discovered  them  a  long  time 


THE  DANCING  IS  RESUMED  19 

ago.  No,  I  content  myself  with  taking  the  part  of 
a  fairy  godmother." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  follow,"  Stafford  put  in. 
"What  is  the  fairy  godmother  going  to  do  for  us? 
Produce  a  club-house,  a  patron,  or  a  cucumber?" 

"A  patron,  and  one,  my  dear  fellow,  whom  I 
should  have  entirely  overlooked  had  it  not  been 
for  you." 

"For  me !" 

"It  was  you  who  made  the  discovery  that  the 
present  Rajah  is  not,  as  we  thought,  an  imbecilic 
youth,  but  a  man  of  many  parts  and  splendidly 
adapted  to  our  requirements." 

"I  protest !"  broke  in  Stafford,  with  unusual 
earnestness.  "It  was  by  pure  chance  that,  in  an 
audience  with  the  Maharajah  Scindia,  the  late  re- 
gent of  Marut,  I  got  to  hear  that  his  whilom  ward 
was  both  intelligent  and  cultured.  I  believe  it  was 
a  slip  on  his  part,  and,  seeing  that  Rajah  Nehal 
Singh  has  shunned  all  English  intercourse,  I  can 
not  see  that  there  is  any  likelihood  of  his  adapting 
himself  or  his  purse  to  your  plans." 

"Oh,  bosh !"  exclaimed  Travers  impatiently. 
"You  are  too  cautious,  Stafford.  Other  rajahs  in- 
terest themselves  in  social  matters — why  not  this 
one?  He  is  fabulously  rich,  I  understand,  and  a  lit- 
tle gentle  handling  should  easily  bring  him  around." 

There  was  a  chorus  of  bravos,  in  which  only  one 
or  two  did  not  join.  One  was  Colonel  Carmichael, 
who  stood  a  little  apart,  pulling  his  thin  grey  mous- 
tache in  the  nervous,  anxious  way  peculiar  to  him, 
his  kindly  face  overshadowed. 

"On  principle,"  he  began,  after  the  first  applause 


20  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

had  died  down,  "I  am  against  the  suggestion.  Of 
course,  I  have  no  deciding  voice  in  the  matter,  but 
I  confess  that  the  idea  has  not  my  approval.  I  know 
very  well  that,  as  you  say,  other  native  princes  have 
proved  themselves  useful  and  valuable  acquisitions 
to  English  society.  In  some  cases  it  may  be  well 
enough,  though  in  no  case  does  it  seem  to  me  right 
to  accept  hospitality  from  a  man  to  whom  we  only 
grant  an  apparent  equality.  In  this  particular  case 
I  consider  the  idea — well,  repulsive." 

"May  I  ask  why,  Colonel  ?"  Travers  asked  sharp- 

iy. 

"By  all  means.  Because  less  than  a  quarter  of  a 
century  ago  the  father  of  the  man  from  whom  you 
are  seeking  gifts  slaughtered  by  treachery  hundreds 
of  our  own  people." 

An  uncomfortable,  uneasy  silence  followed.  Cap- 
tain Stafford  and  Lois  exchanged  a  quick  glance  of 
understanding. 

"I  know  of  at  least  two  people  who  will  agree 
with  me,"  continued  the  Colonel,  who  had  intercepted 
and  possibly  anticipated  the  glance. 

"You  are  right,  Colonel,"  Stafford  said.  "I  bear 
no  malice,  and  any  idea  of  revenge  seems  to  me 
foolish.  As  far  as  I  know,  the  present  Rajah  is  all 
that  can  be  desired,  but  I  protest  against  a  sugges- 
tion— and  what  is  worse,  a  practice,  which  must  inev- 
itably lower  our  dignity  in  the  eyes  of  those  we  are 
supposed  to  govern." 

The  awkward  silence  continued  for  a  moment,  no 
one  caring  to  express  a  contrary  opinion,  though  a 
contrary  opinion  undoubtedly  existed. 

Beatrice  looked  up  at  Captain  Webb,  who  hap- 


THE  DANCING  IS  RESUMED  21 

pened  to  be  standing  at  her  side.  Her  acquaintance 
with  him  dated  only  from  an  hour  back,  but  an  un- 
controllable irritation  made  her  voice  her  opinions 
to  him. 

"I  think  all  that  sort  of  thing  rather  overstrained 
and  unnecessary,"  she  said.  "Your  chief  business 
is  to  get  the  best  out  of  life,  and  quixotic  people 
who  worry  about  the  means  are  rather  a  nuisance, 
don't  you  think?" 

Captain  Webb's  bored  features  lighted  up  with  a 
faint  amusement. 

"O,  Lor',  you  mustn't  say  that  sort  of  thing  to 
me,  Miss  Cary !"  he  said  in  a  subdued  aside.  "Su- 
perior officer,  you  know !  If  you  want  an  index  to 
my  feelings,  study  my  countenance."  He  pretended 
to  smother  a  gigantic  yawn,  and  Beatrice's  cool, 
unchecked  laughter  broke  the  constraint. 

Travers  look  around  with  a  return  of  his  old 
good-humor. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  have  two  votes  against  my 
plans,  but,  with  due  respect  to  those  two,  who  are, 
perhaps,  unduly  influenced  by  unfortunate  circum- 
stances, I  feel  that  it  is  only  just  that  the  others 
should  be  given  a  voice  in  the  matter.  Do  you  agree, 
Colonel?" 

Colonel  Carmichael  had  by  this  time  regained  his 
placid,  gentle  manner. 

"Certainly,"  he  agreed,  without  hesitation. 

"Hands  up,  then,  for  letting  Rajah  Nehal  Singh 
go  his  way  in  peace !" 

Three  hands  went  up — Colonel  Carmichael's, 
Stafford's  and  'Lois'.  Beatrice  glanced  at  the  lat- 
ter with  a  smile  that  expressed  what  it  was  meant 


22  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

to  express — a  supercilious  amusement.  Her  indif- 
ference was  rapidly  taking  another  and  more  de- 
cided character. 

"Hands  up  for  drawing  the  bashful  youth  into 
Circe's  circle!"  called  Travers,  now  thoroughly 
elated.  A  forest  of  hands  went  up.  Captain  Webb 
and  his  bosom  comrade,  Captain  Saunders,  who,  for 
diplomatic  reasons  had  remained  neutral,  exchanged 
grins.  "You  see,"  Travers  said,  turning  with  def- 
erential politeness  to  the  Colonel,  "the  day  is  against 
you." 

"The  Old  Guard  dies,  but  never  surrenders!" 
quoted  the  Colonel  good-humoredly. 

"The  next  question  is,  on  whose  shoulders  shall 
the  task  of  beguilement  fall?"  Travers  went  on, 
glancing  at  Stafford.  "I  suppose  you,  O,  wise  young 
judge—?" 

"It  is  out  of  the  question,"  Stafford  answered  at 
once.  "I  consider  I  have  done  enough  damage  al- 
ready." 

"What  about  your  serpent's  tongue,  Travers?" 
suggested  Webb.  "When  I  think  of  the  follies  you 
have  tempted  me  to  commit,  I  feel  that  you  should 
be  unanimously  elected." 

Travers  bowed  his  acknowledgments  with  mock 
gravity. 

"Since  there  are  no  other  candidates,  I  accept  the 
onerous  task,"  he  said,  "but  I  can  not  go  about  it 
single-handed.  The  serpent's  tongue  may  be  mine, 
but  I  lack,  I  fear,  the  grace  and  personal  charm 
necessary  for  complete  conquest.  I  need  the  help 
of  Circe,  herself."  His  bright,  bird-like  eye  passed 
over  the  laughing  group,  resting  on  Lois  an  instant 


THE  DANCING  IS  RESUMED  23 

with  an  expression  of  woebegone  regret.  Beatrice 
Gary  was  the  next  in  line,  and  his  search  went  no 
farther  than  her  flushed,  eager  face.  "Ah!"  he  ex- 
claimed, "I  have  found  the  enchantress  herself! 
Miss "  He  hesitated,  for  an  instant  unaccount- 
ably shaken  out  of  his  debonair  self-possession. 
Webb  sprang  to  the  rescue  with  a  formal  introduc- 
tion, and  Travers  proceeded,  if  not  entirely  with 
his  old  equanimity.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss 
Gary,"  he  apologized.  "Your  face  is,  strangely  enough, 
so  familiar  to  me  that  I  took  you  for  an  old  acquaint- 
ance— perhaps,  indeed,  you  are,  if  in  our  modern  days 
Circe  finds  it  necessary  to  travel  incognito." 

Beatrice  joined  in  the  general  amusement,  her  un- 
usually large  and  beautiful  eyes  bright  with  elation. 

"May  I  claim  your  assistance?"  Travers  went  on. 
"Instinct  tells  me  that  we  shall  be  irresistible." 

"Willingly,"  Beatrice  responded,  "though  I  can  not 
imagine  how  I  can  help  you." 

"Leave  that  to  me,"  he  said,  offering  her  his  arm. 
"My  plans  are  Napoleonic  in  their  depth  and  mag- 
nitude. If  you  will  allow  me  to  unfold  them  to  you 
before  the  dancing  begins — ?" 

She  smiled  her  assent,  and  walked  at  his  side 
toward  the  Colonel's  bungalow.  On  their  way  they 
passed  Mrs.  Gary,  who,  strangely  enough,  did  not  re- 
spond to  the  half-triumphant  glance  which  her  daughter 
cast  at  her.  She  turned  hastily  aside. 

"Mr.  Travers  is  no  doubt — "  she  began,  in  a  con- 
fidential undertone;  but  her  companion,  Mrs.  Car- 
michael,  had  taken  the  opportunity  and  vanished. 

The  light-hearted,  superficial  discussion,  with  its 
scarcely  felt  undercurrent  of  tragic  reminiscence, 


24 

had  lasted  through  the  swift  sunset,  and  already 
dusk  was  beginning  to  throw  its  long  shadows  over 
the  gaily  dressed  figures  that  streamed  up  toward  the 
bungalow. 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  garden  lights  were  spring- 
ing up  in  quick  succession,  thanks  to  the  industry 
of  Mrs.  Carmichael,  who  hurried  from  one  Chinese 
lantern  to  the  other,  breathless  but  determined. 
The  task  was  doubtless  an  ignominious  one  for  an 
Anglo-Indian  lady  of  position,  but  Mrs.  Carmichael, 
who  acted  as  a  sort  of  counterbalance  to  her  hus- 
band's extravagant  hospitality,  cared  not  at  all. 
England,  half-pay  and  all  its  attendant  horrors, 
loomed  in  the  near  future,  and  economy  had  to  be 
practised  somehow. 

Of  the  late  group  only  Lois  and  John  Stafford 
remained.  They  had  not  spoken,  but,  as  though 
obeying  a  mutual  understanding,  both  remained 
quietly  waiting  till  they  were  alone. 

"Shall  we  walk  about  a  little?"  he  asked  at  last. 
"I  missed  our  morning  ride  so  much.  It  has  put  my 
whole  day  out  of  joint,  and  I  want  something  to  put 
it  straight  again.  Do  you  mind,  or  would  you  rath- 
er dance?  I  see  they  have  begun." 

"No,"  she  said.  "I  would  rather  be  quiet  for  a 
few  minutes.  Somehow  I  have  lost  the  taste  for 
that  sort  of  thing  to-night." 

"I  also,"  he  responded. 

They  walked  silently  side  by  side  along  the  well- 
kept  path,  each  immersed  in  his  own  thoughts  and 
soothed  by  the  knowledge  that  their  friendship  had 
reached  a  height  where  silence  is  permitted — be- 
comes even  the  purest  form  of  expression.  At  the 


THE  DANCING  IS  RESUMED  25 

bottom  of  the  compound  they  reached  a  large,  low- 
built  building,  evidently  once  a  dwelling-place,  over- 
grown with  wild  plants  and  half  in  ruins,  whose  dim 
outlines  stood  out  against  the  darkening  back- 
ground of  trees  and  sky.  The  door  stood  open,  and 
must  indeed  have  stood  open  for  many  years,  for 
the  broken  hinges  were  rusty  and  seemed  to  be 
clinging  to  the  torn  woodwork  only  by  the  strength 
of  undisturbed  custom. 

Stafford  came  to  a  halt. 

"That  is  where — "  he  began,  and  then  abruptly 
left  his  sentence  unfinished. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "it  is  here.  I  don't  think,  as  long 
as  we  live  in  India,  that  my  guardian  will  ever  have 
it  touched.  He  calls  it  the  Memorial.  My  father 
was  his  greatest  friend,  and  the  terrible  fact  that  he 
came  too  late  to  save  him  has  saddened  his  whole 
life." 

Stafford  looked  down  at  her.  The  light  from  a 
lantern  which  Mrs.  Carmichael,  with  great  dexter- 
ity, had  fixed  among  some  overhanging  branches, 
fell  on  the  dark  features,  now  composed  and 
thoughtful.  She  met  his  glance  in  silence,  with 
large  eyes  that  had  taken  into  their  depths  some- 
thing of  the  surrounding  shadow.  He  had  never 
felt  so  strongly  before  the  peculiarity  of  her  fasci- 
nation— perhaps  because  he  had  never  seen  her  in  a 
setting  which  seemed  so  entirely  a  part  of  herself. 
The  distant  music,  the  hum  of  voices,  and  that 
strange  charm  which  permeates  an  Indian  nightfall 
— above  all,  the  ruined  bungalow  with  its  shattered 
door  and  silent  memories — these  things,  with  their 
sharp  contrasts  of  laughter  and  tragedy,  had  formed 


26  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

themselves  into  a  background  which  belonged  to 
her,  so  that  she  and  they  seemed  inseparable. 

"Oh,  Lois,  little  girl!"  Stafford  said  gently.  "I 
have  always  thought  of  you  as  standing  alone,  dif- 
ferent from  everything  and  everybody,  a  stranger 
from  another  world,  irresistible,  incomprehensible. 
I  have  just  understood  that  you  are  part  and  parcel 
of  it  all,  child  of  the  sun  and  flowers  and  mysteries 
and  wonders.  It  is  I  who  am  the  stranger !" 

"Hush!"  she  said,  in  a  voice  of  curious  pain. 
"Hush !  Let  us  go  back.  We  must  dance — whether 
we  will  or  not." 

He  followed  her  without  protest.  The  very  rustle 
of  her  muslin  skirts  over  the  fallen  leaves  made  for 
his  ears  a  new  and  fantastic  music. 

Close  behind  them  wandered  the  two  captains, 
Webb  and  Saunders,  arm  in  arm.  At  the  entrance 
to  Colonel  Carmichael's  Memorial  Webb  stopped, 
and,  striking  a  match  against  the  door,  proceeded  to 
light  his  cigar.  The  tiny  flame  lit  up  for  an  instant 
the  languid  patrician  features. 

"A  cigar  is  one's  only  comfort  in  a  dull  affair  like 
this/'  he  remarked,  as  they  resumed  their  leisurely 
promenade.  "Awful  wine,  wasn't  it?" 

"Awful.  The  Colonel  is  beginning  to  put  on  the 
curb — or  his  lady.  It's  the  same  thing." 

"It  will  be  better  when  the  club  comes  into  ex- 
istence," said  Webb,  blowing  consolatory  clouds  of 
smoke  into  the  quiet  air. 

"It  is  to  be  hoped  so.  Spunky  devil,  that  Travers. 
Wonder  how  he  means  to  do  the  trick.  He  knows 
how  to  pick  out  a  pretty  partner,  anyhow." 

"That  Cary  girl?     Yes.     Wait  till  the  heat  has 


THE  DANCING  IS  RESUMED  27 

dried  her  up,  though.  She'll  be  a  scarecrow,  like 
the  rest  of  them.  By  the  way,  what  were  her  peo- 
ple?" 

"Heaven  knows — something  in  the  D.  P.  W.,  I 
believe.  The  mother  was  dressed  in  the  queerest 
kit." 

"I  heard  her  talking  about  'the  gentlemen/  "  re- 
marked Webb,  laughing,  as  they  went  up  the  steps 
of  the  bungalow  together. 

The  Memorial  was  once  more  left  to  its  shadows 
and  silence.  At  the  edge  of  the  compound  a  group 
of  natives  peered  through  the  fencing,  watching  and 
listening.  Their  dark  faces  expressed  neither  hatred 
nor  admiration,  nor  sorrow,  nor  pleasure — at  most, 
a  dull  wonder. 

When  they  were  tired  of  watching,  they  passed 
noiselessly  on  their  way. 


CHAPTER  III 

NEHAL  SINGH 

THE  Royal  apartment  was  prepared  for  the  suf- 
focating midday  heat.  Heavy  hangings  had  been 
pulled  across  the  door  which  led  on  to  the  balcony, 
and  only  at  one  small  aperture  the  sunshine  ventured 
to  pierce  through  and  dance  its  golden  reflection  hither 
and  thither  over  the  marble  floor.  The  rest  was  hidden 
in  the  semi-obscurity  of  a  starlit  night,  which,  like  a 
transparent  veil,  half  conceals  and  half  reveals  an  un- 
told richness  and  splendor. 

At  either  side  slender  Moorish  pillars  rose  to  the 
lofty  ceiling,  and  from  their  capitals  winking  points 
of  light  shimmered  through  the  shadows.  Fantas- 
tic designs  sprang  into  sudden  prominence  on  the 
walls,  shifting  with  the  shifting  of  the  sunshine,  and 
at  the  far  end,  raised  by  steps  from  the  level  of  the 
floor,  stood  a  throne,  alone  marked  out  against  the 
darkness  by  its  be  jeweled  splendor.  Of  other  fur- 
niture there  was  no  trace.  To  the  left  a  divan 
formed  of  silken  cushions  had  been  built  up  for  tem- 
porary use,  and  on  this,  stretched  full  length  on  his 
side,  lay  an  old  man  whose  furrowed  visage  ap- 
peared doubly  dark  and  sinister  beneath  the  dead 
white  of  his  turban.  His  head  was  half  supported 
on  a  pillow,  and  thus  at  his  ease  he  watched  with 
unblinking,  unflagging  attention  the  tall,  slight  fig- 
ure by  the  doorway. 

28 


NEHAL  SINGH  29 

It  was  the  Rajah  himself  who  had  let  in  the  one 
point  of  daylight.  It  fell  full  upon  his  face  and  set 
into  a  brilliant  blaze  the  single  diamond  on  the  ner- 
vous, muscular  hand  which  held  the  curtain  aside. 
Apparently  he  had  forgotten  his  companion,  and  in- 
deed everything  save  the  scene  on  which  his  eyes 
rested.  Beneath  the  balcony,  like  steps  to  a  mighty 
altar,  broad  and  beautiful  terraces  descended  in 
stately  gradations  to  a  paradise  of  rare  exotic  flow- 
ers, whose  heavy  perfume  came  drifting  up  on  the 
calm  air  to  the  very  windows  of  the  palace.  This 
lovely  chaos  extended  for  about  a  mile  and  then  end- 
ed abruptly.  As  though  cultivated  nature  had  sud- 
denly broken  loose  from  her  artificial  bounds,  a  dark 
jungle-forest  rose  up  side  by  side  with  the  flowers 
and  well-kept  walks,  and  like  a  black  stain  spread 
itself  into  the  distance,  swallowing  up  hill  and  val- 
ley until  the  eye  lost  itself  in  the  haze  of  the  hori- 
zon. Within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  the  palace  a 
ruined  Hindu  temple  lifted  its  dome  and  crumbling 
towers  into  the  intense  blue  of  the  sky.  And  on 
garden,  jungle,  and  temple  alike  the  scorching  mid- 
day sun  blazed  down  with  pitiless  impartiality. 

For  an  hour  the  Rajah  had  remained  watching  the 
unchanging  scene,  scarcely  for  an  instant  shifting 
his  own  position.  One  hand  rested  on  his  hip,  the 
other  held  back  the  curtain  and  supported  him  in 
a  half-leaning  attitude  of  dreamy  indolence.  Against 
the  intensified  darkness  of  the  room  behind  him 
his  features  stood  out  with  the  distinctness  of  a 
finely  cut  cameo.  A  man  of  about  twenty-five  years, 
he  yet  seemed  younger,  thanks,  perhaps,  to  his  ex- 
pression, which  was  extraordinarily  untroubled. 


30  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

Thought,  poetic  and  philosophic,  but  never  tempes- 
tuous, sat  in  the  dark,  well-shaped  eyes  and  high, 
intellectual  forehead.  Humor,  sorrow,  care,  anxi- 
ety and  doubt,  the  children  of  a  strenuous  life,  had 
left  his  face  singularly  unscarred  with  their  charac- 
teristic lines.  For  the  rest,  beyond  that  he  was  un- 
usually fair,  he  represented  in  bearing  and  in  fea- 
ture a  Hindu  prince  of  high  caste  and  noble  lineage. 
Between  him  and  the  old  man  upon  the  divan  there 
was  no  apparent  resemblance.  The  latter  was  con- 
siderably darker,  and  lacked  both  the  refinement  of 
feature  and  dignity  of  expression  which  disting- 
uished the  younger  man.  Nevertheless,  when  he 
spoke  it  was  in  the  tone  of  familiarity,  almost  of 
paternal  authority. 

"Art  thou  not  weary,  my*  son?"  he  asked  abrupt- 
ly. "For  an  hour  thou  hast  neither  moved  nor 
spoken.  Tell  me  with  what  thy  thoughts  are  con- 
cerned. I  would  fain  know,  and  thy  face  has  told 
me  nothing." 

Nehal  Singh  let  the  curtain  fall  back  into  its 
place,  and  the  yellow  patch  of  sunshine  upon  the 
marble  faded.  He  looked  at  his  companion  stead- 
fastly, but  with  eyes  that  saw 'nothing. 

"My  thoughts !"  he  repeated,  in  a  low,  musical 
voice.  "My  thoughts  are  valueless.  They  are  like 
caged  birds  which  have  beaten  their  wings  against 
the  bars  of  their  cage  and  now  sit  on  their  golden 
perches  and  dream  of  the  world  beyond."  He 
laughed  gently.  "No,  my  father.  You,  who  have 
seen  the  world,  would  mock  at  them  as  dim,  unreal 
reflections  of  a  reality  which  you  have  touched  and 
handled.  For  me  they  are  beautiful  enough." 


NEHAL  SINGH  31 

The  old  man  lifted  himself  on  his  elbow. 

"Thinkest  thou  never  of  thyself?"  he  asked.  "In 
thy  dreams  hast  thou  never  seen  thine  own  form 
rise  at  the  call  of  thy  waiting  people?" 

"My  waiting  people !"  Nehal  Singh  repeated, 
with  a  smile  and  a  faint  lifting  of  the  eyebrows. 
"No  people  wait  for  me,  my  father.  So  much  I  have 
learned.  I  bear  a  title,  a  tract  of  land  acknowledges 
my  niiv.-  but  a  people!  No,  like  my  title,  like  my 
power,  i  myself,  so  is  the  people  that  thou  sayest 
await  me — a  dream,  my  father,  a  dream!"  He  spoke 
gravely,  without  sadness,  the  same  gentle,  wistful 
smile  playing  about  his  lips. 

The  other  sank  back  with  a  groan. 

"The  All-Highest  pity  me !"  he  exclaimed  bitter- 
ly. "A  child  of  blood  and  battle,  without  energy, 
without  ambition !" 

Nehal  Singh,  who  had  paced  forward  to  the  foot 
of  the  throne,  turned  and  looked  back. 

"Ambition  I  have  had,"  he  answered,  "energy  I 
have  had.  Like  my  thoughts,  they  have  beaten 
themselves  weary  against  the  bars  of  their  cage. 
What  would  you  have  me  do?"  He  strode  back  to 
the  door,  and,  pulling  aside  the  curtain,  let  the  full 
dazzling  sunshine  pour  in  upon  them.  "See  out 
there !"  he  cried.  "Is  it  not  a  sight  to  bring  peace  to 
the  soul  of  the  poet  and  the  dreamer?  But  for  the 
warrior?  Can  he  draw  his  sword  against  flowers 
and  trees?" 

The  old  man  smiled  coldly,  but  not  without  sat- 
isfaction. 

"There  is  a  world  that  awaiteth  thee  beyond," 
he  said. 


32  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"A  world  of  which  I  know  nothing." 

"The  time  cometh." 

Nehal  Singh  studied  the  wrinkled  face  with  a 
new  intentness. 

"Hitherto  thou  hast  always  held  a  barrier  be- 
tween the  world  and  me,"  he  said.  "When  the  call 
to  the  Durbar  came,  it  was  thou  who  bade  me  say 
I  was  ill.  When  the  Feringhi  sought  my  presence, 
it  was  thou  who  held  fast  my  door,  first  with  one 
excuse,  then  with  another.  And  now?  I  do  not 
understand  thee." 

Behar  Asor  struggled  up  into  a  sitting  posture, 
his  features  rendered  more  malignant  by  a  glow  of 
fierce  triumph. 

"Ay,  the  barrier  has  been  there !"  he  cried.  "It 
is  I  who  have  held  it  erect  all  these  years  when 
they  thought  me  dead  and  powerless.  It  is  I  who 
have  kept  thee  spotless  and  undefiled,  Nehal  Singh, 
thou  alone  of  all  thy  race  and  of  all  thy  caste !  The 
shadow  of  the  Unbeliever  has  never  crossed  thy 
man's  face,  his  food  thy  lips,  nor  has  his  hand 
touched  thy  man's  hand.  Thou  art  the  chosen  of 
Brahma,  and  when  the  hour  striketh  and  the  Holy 
War  proclaimed  from  east  to  west  and  from  north 
to  south,  then  it  shall  be  thy  sword — " 

Nehal  Singh  held  up  his  hand  with  a  gesture  of 
command. 

"Thou  also  art  a  dreamer,"  he  said  firmly.  "Thy 
heart  is  full  of  an  old  hatred  and  an  old  injury.  My 
heart  is  free  from  both.  Seest  thou,  my  father, 
there  were  years  when  thy  words  called  up  some 
echo  in  me.  Thou  toldest  me  of  the  Feringhi,  of 
the  bloody  battles  thou  foughtest  against  them  be- 


NEHAL  SINGH  33 

cause  they  had  wronged  thee ;  how,  after  Fortune 
had  smiled  faintly,  thou  wert  driven  into  exile,  and 
I,  thy  son,  bereft  of  all  save  pomp  and  title,  placed 
upon  thy  empty  throne.  These  things  made  my 
blood  boil.  In  those  days  I  thought  and  planned 
for  the  great  hour  when  I  should  seek  revenge  for 
thee  and  for  myself.  That  is  all  past." 

"Why  all  past?"  Behar  Asor  demanded. 

"Because  the  truth  drifted  in  to  me  from  the 
outer  world.  I  saw  that  everywhere  there  was 
peace  such  as  my  land,  even  after  thy  account,  has 
rarely  known.  Law  and  order  reigned  where  there 
had  been  plundering  and  devastation,  prosperity 
where  there  had  been  endless  famine.  More  than 
this,  I  saw  that  in  every  conflict,  whether  between 
beast  and  beast  or  man  and  man,  it  was  always  the 
strongest  and  wisest  that  conquered.  The  triumph 
of  the  fool  and  weakling  is  but  a  short  one,  nor  is 
the  rule  of  crime  and  wickedness  of  long  duration. 
Why,  then,  should  I  throw  myself  against  a  people 
who  have  brought  my  people  prosperity,  and  who 
have  proved  themselves  in  peace  and  war  our  mas- 
ters in  courage  and  wisdom?" 

Behar  Asor  struggled  up,  galvanized  by  a  storm 
of  passion  which  shook  his  fragile  frame  from  head 
to  foot. 

"Thou  art  still  no  more  than  an  ignorant  boy," 
he  exclaimed.  "What  knowest  thou  of  these 
things?" 

"I  have  read  of  Englishmen  whose  deeds  outrival 
the  legends  of  Krishna,"  Nehal  Singh  answered 
thoughtfully.  "They  fought  in  your  time,  my 
father.  Thou  knowest  them  better  than  I." 


34  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

The  old  man  ground  his  teeth  together. 

"They  are  dead."  There  was  a  reluctant  admira- 
tion in  his  tone. 

"Nevertheless,  their  sons  live." 

"The  sons  inherit  not  always  the  courage  of  their 
fathers,"  Behar  Asor  answered,  with  a  bitter  sig- 
nificance. 

Nehal  Singh  had  wandered  back  to  the  throne, 
as  though  drawn  thither  by  some  irresistible  attrac- 
tion, and  stood  there  motionless,  his  arms  folded 
across  his  breast. 

"Do  not  blame  me,"  he  said  at  last.  "No  man 
can  go  against  himself.  Were  it  in  my  power,  I 
would  do  thy  will.  As  it  is,  without  cause  or  rea- 
son I  can  not  draw  my  sword  against  men  whose 
fathers  have  made  my  heart  beat  with  sympathy 
and  admiration." 

Behar  Asor  sank  back  in  an  attitude  of  absolute 
despair. 

"I  am  accursed!"  he  said. 

With  a  smothered  sigh,  Nehal  Singh  mounted 
the  steps  and  seated  himself.  In  his  attitude  also 
there  was  a  hopelessness — not  indeed  the  hopeless- 
ness of  a  man  whose  plans  are  thwarted,  but  of  one 
who  is  keenly  conscious  that  he  has  no  plans,  no 
goal,  no  purpose.  As  he  sat  there,  his  fine  head 
thrown  back  against  the  white  ivory,  his  eyes  half 
closed,  his  fingers  loosely  clasping  the  golden  pea- 
cocks' heads  which  formed  the  arms  of  his  throne, 
there  was,  as  he  had  said,  something  dreamlike  and 
unreal  about  his  whole  person,  intensified  perhaps 
by  the  dim  atmosphere  and  shadowy  splendor  of  his 
surroundings. 


NEHAL  SINGH  35 

Behar  Asor  had  ceased  to  watch  him,  but  lay 
motionless,  with  his  face  covered  by  the  white  man- 
tle which  he  wore  about  his  shoulders.  The  first 
storm  of  angry  disappointment  over,  he  had  re- 
lapsed into  a  passive  oriental  acceptance  of  the  inevit- 
able, which  did  not,  however,  exclude  an  undercurrent 
of  bitter  brooding  and  contempt. 

Some  time  passed  before  either  of  the  two  men 
spoke.  At  last  Behar  Asor  lifted  his  head  and 
glanced  quickly  sidewise  at  the  figure  seated  on 
the  throne.  Nehal  Singh's  eyes  were  now  entirely 
closed  and  seemed  to  sleep.  Such  a  proceeding 
would  have  been  excusable  enough  in  the  suffocat- 
ing heat,  but  the  sight  drove  the  old  man  into  a 
fresh  paroxysm  of  indignation. 

"Sleepest  thou,  Nehal  Singh?"  he  demanded,  in 
a  harsh,  rasping  voice.  "Is  it  not  sufficient  that  thou 
hast  failed  thy  destiny,  but  in  the  same  hour  thou 
must  close  thine  eyes  and  dream,  like  a  child  on  whose 
shoulders  rest  no  duty,  no  responsibility?  Awake!  I 
have  more  to  say  to  thee." 

Nehal  Singh  looked  up. 

"I  have  not  slept,"  he  said  gravely,  "though,  as 
to  what  concerns  duty  and  responsibility,  I  might 
well  have  done  so,  for  I  have  neither  the  one  nor 
the  other.  Speak,  I  pray  thee.  I  listen." 

Behar  Asor  remained  silent  a  moment,  biting  his 
forefinger.  There  was  something  in  the  action 
strongly  reminiscent  of  a  cunning,  treacherous  an- 
imal. 

"Thou  hast  laughed  at  thine  own  power,"  he  said 
at  last,  "though  I  have  sworn  to  thee  that,  as  in 
my  time,  so  to-day,  the  swords  that  sleep  in  a  hun- 


36  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

dred  thousand  sheathes  would  awake  at  thy  word. 
They  sleep  because  thou  sleepest.  Well — thou  hast 
willed  to  sleep.  I  can  not  force  thee,  and  mine  own 
hand  has  grown  too  feeble.  But  since  thou  hast 
chosen  peace,  remember  this,  that  it  can  last  only 
with  thy  lifetime.  So  long  thy  people  will  be  pa- 
tient. Afterward — "  He  shrugged  his  shoulders 
significantly. 

"Thou  hast  more  to  tell  me,"  Nehal  Singh  said. 

"If  thou  wilt  keep  peace  in  thy  land,  see  to  it 
that  thou  hast  children  who  will  carry  it  on  for  thee 
after  thou  hast  passed  into  the  shadow,"  Behar  an- 
swered. "Hitherto  thou  hast  led  a  strange  and  lone- 
ly life,  preparing  as  I  willed  for  the  destiny  thou 
hast  cast  aside.  Take  now  unto  thee  a  companion — 
a  wife." 

As  though  clumsy,  untutored  fingers  which  had 
until  now  tortured  some  fine  instrument  had  sud- 
denly, perhaps  by  chance,  perhaps  by  instinct, 
struck  a  pure  harmonious  chord,  Nehal  Singh  rose 
to  his  feet,  his  weary  dreamer's  face  transfigured 
with  a  new  light  and  new  energy. 

"A  wife !"  he  said  under  his  breath.  "A  woman ! 
I  know  nothing  of  women.  In  all  my  life  I  have 
seen  but  two — my  mother  and  a  nautch-girl — who 
cringed  to  me.  I  should  not  like  my  wife  to  cringe 
to  me.  Are  there  not  such  as  could  be  my  com- 
panion, my  comrade?  Or  are  they  all  servile 
slaves?" 

Behar  Asor  laughed  shortly  and  contemptuously. 

"They  are  our  inferiors,"  he  said,  "hence  they 
can  not  be  more  than  companions  for  our  idle  hours. 
But  you  will  have  idle  hours  enough,  and  there 


NEHAL  SINGH  37 

would  be  many  who  would  call  themselves  blessed 
to  share  themselves  with  thee.  A  great  alliance — ' 

Nehal  Singh  interrupted  him  with  the  old  ges- 
ture of  authority. 

"Thou  hast  said  enough,  my  father,"  he  said.  "I 
will  think  upon  it.  Until  then — leave  me  my  peace." 

With  a  slow,  meditative  step  he  went  back  to  the 
curtained  doorway  and,  pulling  aside  the  hangings, 
went  out  on  to  the  balcony.  It  was  four  o'clock, 
and  already  the  heat  of  the  day  had  broken.  Long 
rays  of  sunlight  struck  eastward  across  the  garden 
and  touched  with  their  faded  golden  fingers  the 
topmost  turrets  of  the  temple.  In  the  distance  the 
shadows  of  the  jungle  had  advanced  and,  like  the 
waves  of  a  rising  tide,  seemed  to  swallow  up,  step 
by  step,  the  brightness  of  the  prospect.  Nehal 
Singh  descended  the  winding  stair  that  led  to  the 
first  terrace.  Thence  three  paths  stretched  them- 
selves before  him.  He  chose  the  central  one,  and 
with  bowed  head  passed  between  the  high,  half- 
wild,  half-cultivated  borders  of  plants  and  shrubs. 
A  faint  evening  breeze  breathed  its  intangible  per- 
fume against  his  cheek,  and  he  looked  up  smiling. 

"A  woman !"  he  murmured  dreamily.  "A  woman !" 


CHAPTER  IV. 

CIRCE 

THE  dominion  over  which  Rajah  Nehal  Singh 
exercised  his  partial  authority  was  a  tract  of  un- 
fruitful land  extending  over  about  two  hundred 
square  miles  and  sparely  inhabited  by  a  branch  of 
the  Aryan  race  which  through  countless  genera- 
tions had  kept  itself  curiously  aloof  from  its  neigh- 
bors. The  greater  number  were  Hindus  of  the 
strictest  type,  and  perhaps  owing  to  their  natural 
conservatism  they  had  succeeded  in  keeping  their 
religion  comparatively  free  from  the  abuses  and 
distortions  which  it  was  forced  to  undergo  in  other 
regions.  Up  to  the  year  18 —  the  state  had  been 
to  all  practical  purposes  independent.  Its  poverty 
and  unusual  integral  cohesion  made  it  at  once  a 
dangerous  enemy  and  an  undesirable  dependent, 
which  it  was  tacitly  agreed  to  let  alone  until  such 
time  when  action  should  become  imperative.  That 
time  had  come  under  the  reign  of  Behar  Asor — 
then  Behar  Singh.  This  prince,  who,  his  followers 
declared,  could  trace  his  descent  from  Brahma  him- 
self, unexpectedly,  after  he  had  been  living  in  hand- 
in-glove  friendship  with  his  European  neighbors, 
proclaimed  a  Holy  War,  massacred  all  foreigners 
within  his  reach,  and  for  eighteen  long  months  suc- 
ceeded, by  means  of  a  species  of  guerrilla  warfare, 

38 


CIRCE  39 

in  keeping  the  invading  armies  at  bay.  Partly  ow- 
ing to  the  unflagging  determination  of  the  English 
troops,  partly  owing  also  to  the  intense  hatred  with 
which  he  was  regarded  by  all  Mohammedans,  he 
was  eventually  overcome,  though  he  himself  was 
never  captured.  It  was  believed  that  he  died  while 
fleeing  through  the  vast  jungles  with  which  his 
land  was  overgrown,  and  this  idea  was  strength- 
ened by  the  fact  that,  though  a  large  reward  for  his 
capture  was  offered,  nothing  further  had  ever  been 
heard  of  him. 

From  that  time  the  land  came  under  the  more 
or  less  direct  control  of  the  Government.  As  a  con- 
cession to  the  population,  Behar  Singh's  one-year- 
old  son  was  placed  upon  the  throne  under  a  native 
regency,  but  English  regiments  were  stationed  at 
the  chief  towns,  and  a  political  agent  resided  at  the 
capital.  Neither  the  regiments  nor  the  political 
agent,  however,  found  any  work  for  their  hands  to 
do.  A  calm,  as  unexpected  as  it  was  complete, 
seemed  to  descend  upon  the  whole  country,  and  the 
officers  who  had  taken  up  their  posts  with  a  loaded 
revolver  in  each  hand,  figuratively  speaking,  began 
very  quickly  to  relapse  instead  into  pig-sticking,  polo 
and  cards. 

The  climate  was  moderate,  the  vegetation  beau- 
tiful if  unprofitable,  and  the  sport  excellent.  Thus 
it  came  about  that  a  danger  spot  on  the  map  of  the 
Indian  Empire  became  a  European  paradise,  and 
that  to  be  ordered  to  Marut  was  to  become  an  ob- 
ject of  envious  congratulations.  Not,  as  Mr.  Arch- 
ibald Travers  had  with  justice  complained,  that  the 
reigning  prince,  as  in  other  states,  took  any  part 


40  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

in  the  general  gaiety  or  in  any  way  enhanced  the 
agreeableness  of  his  capital.  As  far  as  was  known, 
no  European  eyes  had  ever  lighted  on  him  since  his 
childhood.  Under  one  excuse  and  another  he  had 
been  kept  persistently  in  the  background,  his  place 
being  taken  first  by  the  regent  and  then  by  succeed- 
ing ministers,  until  it  was  generally  supposed  that 
the  young  Rajah  was  either  afflicted  with  some 
loathsome  disease  or  mentally  deficient,  probabili- 
ties which  the  Government,  with  unpleasant  recol- 
lections of  Behar  Singh's  too  great  intelligence,  ac- 
cepted with  unusual  readiness.  There  were  no 
causes  for  suspicion.  The  Rajah  never  left  the  pre- 
cincts of  his  palace  garden,  a  piece  of  land  whose 
cultivation  had  cost  untold  sums,  and  which,  to- 
gether with  the  Hindu  temple,  was  supposed  to 
stand  as  the  eighth  wonder  of  the  world.  Fabu- 
lous stories  were  told  of  the  beauty  and  rarity  of 
the  vegetation,  and  of  the  value  of  the  jewels  which 
were  supposed  to  decorate  the  temple  and  royal 
apartments.  As  there  was  no  opportunity  of  con- 
firming or  refuting  the  statements,  they  were  al- 
lowed to  grow  unhindered. 

It  was  in  this  small  sphere  that  Nehal  Singh 
spent  his  childhood,  his  youth  and  early  manhood. 
Of  the  outer  world  he  had  seen  nothing,  though 
he  had  read  much,  his  education  extending  over 
all  European  history  and  penetrating  deep  into  that 
of  his  own  country.  Nevertheless,  the  picture  his 
mind  had  formed  had  little  in  common  with  the 
reality — it  was  too  overshadowed  by  his  own  char- 
acter. As  a  blind  man  may  be  able,  through  hear- 
say, to  describe  his  surroundings  detail  by  detail 


CIRCE  41 

and  yet  at  the  bottom  be  possessed  by  an  entirely 
false  conception,  so  Nehal  Singh,  to  all  appearances 
well  instructed,  was  in  reality  as  ignorant  as  a  child. 
The  heroes  whose  figures  peopled  his  imagination 
were  too  heroic,  the  villains  too  evil,  and  both  he- 
roes and  villains  were  either  physically  beautiful 
or  hideous,  according  to  their  characters. 

He  had  no  comrade  against  whose  practical  ex- 
perience he  might  have  rubbed  this  distorted  pic- 
ture into  a  more  truthful  likeness.  His  only  com- 
panions had  been  his  native  instructors  and  the 
priests — men  separated  from  him  by  a  gulf  of  years 
and  a  curious  lack  of  sympathy  which  he  had  in 
vain  striven  to  overcome.  Thus  he  had  been  in- 
tensely lonely,  more  lonely  than  he  knew,  though 
some  dawning  realization  crept  over  him  on  this 
particular  evening  as  he  passed  through  the  temple 
gates.  For  a  moment  he  stood  with  his  hands 
crossed  over  his  breast,  absorbed  in  prayer  to  Brah- 
ma, the  Creator,  in  whose  presence  he  was  about 
to  stand.  In  such  an  hour,  amidst  the  absolute 
stillness,  under  the  stupendous  shadows  of  the 
walls,  which  had,  unchanging,  seen  generation  after 
generation  of  worshipers  drift  from  their  altars 
into  the  deeper  shades  of  Patala,  the  young  prince 
felt  the  wings  of  divine  spirits  brush  close  past  him, 
bearing  his  prayer  on  unseen  hands  to  the  very  ear 
of  the  golden-faced  Trinity  who,  from  his  earliest 
years,  had  seemed  to  look  down  upon  him  with 
solemn  kindness. 

This  evening,  more  perhaps  than  ever  before, 
every  fiber  in  him  vibrated  beneath  the  touch  of  the 
holy  charm,  and  the  prayer  which  passed  sound- 


42  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

lessly  over  his  lips  came  from  a  soul  that  wor- 
shiped in  fiery  earnestness  and  truth.  A  minute 
passed  as  he  stood  there,  then,  removing  his  shoes, 
he  stepped  over  the  threshold  and  walked  forward 
between  the  gigantic  granite  columns  which  sup- 
ported what  was  left  of  the  dome-shaped  roof. 
There  was  no  altar,  no  jewel,  no  figure  cut  in  the 
hard  stone  that  was  not  known  to  him  with  all  their 
mysterious  significance.  Here  had  been  spent  all 
his  leisure  hours;  here  had  been  dreamed  his  wild- 
est dreams ;  beneath  this  column  he  had  seen  as  in 
a  vision  how  Vishnu  took  nine  times  human  form 
and  a  tenth  time  came,  according  to  the  Holy  Writ- 
ings, with  a  winged  horse  of  spotless  white,  and 
crowned  as  conqueror. 

To-day  these  things  pressed  down  upon  him  with 
all  the  weight  of  a  tremendous  reality.  With  beat- 
ing heart  he  entered  at  last  into  the  Holy  of  Holies 
and  stood  before  the  god's  high  altar,  visible  only 
to  those  of  purest  caste.  His  head  was  once  more 
bowed.  He  did  not  venture  to  look  up  at  the  gold- 
en figure  whose  ruby  eyes,  he  knew,  stared  straight 
through  his  soul  into  every  corner  of  the  world  and 
beyond  into  Eternity.  His  belief,  pure,  unsoiled 
from  contact  with  the  world,  was  a  power  that 
had  gone  out  into  the  darkness  and  conjured  thence 
the  spirits  that  shrank  back  from  the  cold  prayer 
of  the  half-believer.  They  stood  before  him  now 
— these  wonderful  spirits.  He  believed  surely  that, 
should  he  dare  to  raise  his  eyes,  he  would  see  them, 
definite  yet  formless,  arising  glorious  out  of  the  cloud 
of  golden  reflection  from  Brahma's  threefold  fore- 
head. 


CIRCE  43 

Thus  he  prayed,  not  kneeling,  since  the  god  cared 
only  for  his  soul : 

"Oh,  Lord  Brahma,  Creator,  hear  me !  Thou  who 
madest  me  knowest  whither  I  came  and  whither  I 
go;  but  I,  who  am  as  the  wind  that  bloweth  as  thou 
listeth,  as  a  flower  that  springeth  up  in  the  night 
and  unseen  fadeth  in  the  midday  heat,  I  know  not 
thy  purpose  nor  the  end  for  which  I  am.  Lord 
Brahma,  teach  me,  for  my  soul  panteth  after  knowl- 
edge. Show  me  the  path  which  I  must  tread,  for 
I  am  weary  with  dreams.  Teach  me  to  serve  my 
people — be  it  hand  in  hand  with  the  Stranger  and 
his  gods,  be  it  alone.  Teach  me  to  act,  and  that 
right  soon;  for  my  childhood  days  are  spent  and 
my  man's  arm  heavy  with  idleness.  Send  me  forth 
— but  not  alone — not  alone,  Lord  Brahma,  for  I  am 
heart-sick  of  loneliness.  Give  me  my  comrade,  my 
comrade  who  shall  be  more  to  me  than — " 

He  stopped  and,  obeying  an  impulse  stronger  than 
himself,  lifted  his  face  to  the  idol.  It  had  vanished.  In 
its  place  stood  a  woman. 

At  another  and  cooler  moment,  with  a  mind  filled 
with  other  thoughts,  with  a  heart  untroubled  by 
new  and  all-powerful  emotions,  he  would  have 
known  her,  if  only  from  hearsay,  for  what  she  was. 
But  with  that  passionate  prayer  upon  his  lips,  she 
was  for  him  the  answer,  a  divine  recognition  of 
his  need  and  of  his  lately  recognized  loneliness. 

Tall,  slender,  with  a  pale,  transparent  complex- 
ion, touched  like  a  young  rose  with  the  faintest 
color,  dark,  grave  eyes  and  hair  that  seemed  a  part  of 


44 

the  obscured  god,  whose  pure  lines,  though  foreign, 
harmonized  in  every  detail  with  the  classic  beauty  of 
her  surroundings,  she  stood  and  watched  him,  as  he 
watched  her,  in  perfect  silence. 

"Lakshmi!"  he  murmured  at  last;  and,  as  though 
the  one  word  had  broken  a  charm  which  held  them 
both  paralyzed,  she  smiled,  and  the  smile  lit  up  the 
Madonna  face  and  made  it  as  human  as  it  had  seemed 
divine. 

"Forgive  me,"  she  began,  speaking  in  English, 
"I  am  afraid  I  have  disturbed  you,  but — "  She 
paused,  apparently  confused  by  the  directness  of 
his  gaze.  The  faint  pink  upon  her  cheek  deepened. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  demanded  in  his  own  tongue. 

Her  look  of  non-comprehension  steadied  him,  at 
least  outwardly,  though  it  did  not  check  the  fierce, 
painful  beating  of  his  pulses.  He  repeated  the 
question  in  pure  though  hesitating  English. 

"I  am  an.  Englishwoman,"  she  answered  at  once, 
"and  have  lost  my  way.  For  hours — it  seems  hours, 
at  any  rate — I  have  been  wandering  hither  and 
thither,  trying  to  find  my  party,  with  whom  I  was 
enjoying  an  excursion.  By  some  chance  I  came 
across  this  temple,  and  hoped  to  meet  some  one  who 
might  help  me.  You  see,  I  am  a  stranger  in  this 
part  of  the  world.  I — I  hope  I  have  done  no 
wrong?" 

She  looked  at  him  pleadingly,  but  he  ignored  her 
question.  It  never  occurred  to  him  to  doubt  her 
explanation,  or  wonder  at  the  unlikeliness  of  the 
chance  which  should  have  led  her  through  the  in- 
tricate paths  to  this  hallowed  spot. 

"You   are   English?"   he   echoed.     The   fever   in 


PIT 


X 


• 


Lakshmi ! "  he  murmured  at  last.     Page  44 


CIRCE  45 

his  blood  was  subsiding,  but,  like  some  great  crisis, 
it  was  leaving  him  changed.  It  had  swept  him  out 
of  the  world  of  languorous,  enchanted  dreams  into 
a  world  of  not  less  enchanted  reality. 

"I  fear  I  am  presumptuous,"  she  began  again; 
"but  are  you  not  the  Rajah?  If  so,  I  am  certain  you 
must  be  very,  very  angry.  For  the  Rajah — so  I 
have  been  told — does  not  love  the  English." 

She  smiled  again,  meeting  his  unwavering  gaze 
with  a  frank  good-humor  which  for  him  was  more 
wonderful  even  than  her  beauty.  No  woman — and 
for  that  matter,  no  man — had  ever  dared  to  look 
him  in  the  eyes  with  such  a  laughing,  fearless  chal- 
lenge. 

"Yes,  I  am  the  Rajah,"  he  answered.  Then,  after 
a  pause,  he  added  with  great  simplicity,  "You  are 
very  beautiful." 

She  laughed  outright,  and  the  laugh,  which  rang 
like  the  peal  of  a  silver  bell  through  the  vaulted 
chamber,  filled  him  with  a  sudden  sense  of  her  dan- 
ger. She  stood  with  her  back  turned  indifferently 
on  the  golden  image,  an  Unbeliever  whose  shod 
feet  were  defiling  the  sacred  precincts,  an  object, 
then,  for  hatred  and  revenge — not  for  him,  truly. 
In  his  eyes  she  was  still  an  emissary  from  Brahma, 
and  thus  in  herself  half  sacred;  but  he  knew  well 
enough  that  such  would  not  be  the  opinion  of  the 
few  fierce  priests  who  worshiped  in  the  temple. 

".You  are  not  safe  here,"  he  said,  with  an  energy 
which  was  new  to  him.  "Come!" 

He  led  her  hurriedly  out  of  the  sanctuary  into 
the  great  entrance  hall.  There  he  slackened  speed 
and  waited  until  she  reached  his  side. 


46  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

"For  a  foreigner  it  is  not  safe  to  enter  the  temple," 
he  explained.  "Had  any  one  but  myself  found 
you,  I  could  not  answer  for  the  consequences." 

"They  would  have  harmed  me?" 

"It  is  possible." 

"That  would  have  been  terrible !"  she  said,  glanc- 
ing at  him  with  eyes  that  expressed  rather  a  daring 
courage  than  fear. 

"Most  terrible,"  he  assented  earnestly. 

"Yet — you  also,  Your  Highness,  you  have  also 
the  same  reasons  for  anger.  My  intrusion,  innocent 
though  it  was,  must  have  been  equally  offensive  to 
you." 

"No,"  he  said.   "That  is  quite  different." 

He  offered  no  further  explanation,  and  together 
they  passed  out  of  the  two  immense  gopuras  into 
the  evening  sunshine. 

"I  will  bring  you  to  the  gates  which  lead  on  to 
the  highroad,"  he  went  on.  "Thence  one  of  my  ser- 
vants will  conduct  you  back  to  the  town,  where  I  trust 
you  will  find  your  friends." 

"You  are  most  good,"  she  answered  gratefully. 

They  walked  side  by  side  between  the  high  walls 
of  cypress  and  palm.  The  path  was  a  narrow  one, 
and  once  his  hand  brushed  lightly  against  hers. 
The  touch  sent  a  flood  of  fire  through  his  young 
veins.  He  drew  back  with  a  courtesy  which  sur- 
prised himself.  He  had  never  been  taught  that 
courtesy  toward  a  woman  could  ever  be  required 
of  him.  Of  women  he  had  heard  little  save  that 
they  were  inferior,  in  intellect  and  judgment  no 
more  than  slaves,  and  his  curiosity  had  at  once  been 
satiated.  He  sought  things  above  him — those  be- 


CIRCE  47 

neath  him  excited  no  more  than  indifference.  But 
this  woman  was  neither  an  inferior  nor  a  slave. 
Her  free,  erect  carriage,  steadfast,  fearless  eyes  pro- 
claimed the  equal.  So  much  his  instinct  taught 
him  in  those  brief  moments,  and  his  eager  curiosity 
concerning  her  grew  and  deepened.  Every  now 
and  again  his  gaze  sought  her  face,  drinking  in  with 
an  almost  passionate  thirst  the  fine  detail  of  her 
profile,  compared  to  which  his  dreams  were  poor 
and  lifeless.  Once  it  chanced  that  she  also  glanced 
at  him,  and  that  they  looked  at  each  other  for  less 
than  a  breathing  space  full  in  the  eyes. 

"I  fear  you  are  angry,  Your  Highness,"  she  said 
earnestly.  "I  must  have  offended  against  your 
laws  even  more  than  I  know." 

"Why  do  you  think  I  am  angry?"  he  asked. 

"You  have  scarcely  spoken." 

"Forgive  me!  That  is  no  sign  of  anger.  I  am 
still  overcome  with  the  strangeness  of  it  all.  You 
are  the  first  English  person  I  have  ever  met." 

She  stood  still,  with  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"Is  that  possible?  I  thought  all  Indian  princes 
mixed  with  English  people.  Many,  indeed,  go  to 
England  to  be  educated — " 

"So  I  have  heard,"  he  broke  in,  with  a  faint 
haughtiness.  "I  am  not  one  of  them." 

"Yet  you  speak  the  language  so  perfectly!"  she 
said. 

A  gleam  of  naive  pleasure  shone  out  of  his  dark 
eyes. 

"I  am  glad  you  think  so.  My — one  of  my  ministers 
taught  me." 

They  walked  on  again.       Here   and   there   she 


48  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

stopped  to  look  at  some  curious  plant — always  a 
little  in  advance  of  him — so  that  he  had  opportunity 
to  study  the  hundred  things  about  her  which  con- 
firmed his  wondering,  increasing  admiration.  Slight 
as  she  was,  there  was  yet  a  gracefully  controlled 
strength  in  every  movement.  In  his  own  mind, 
poor  as  it  necessarily  was  in  comparisons,  he  com- 
pared her  to  a  young  doe  he  had  once  startled  from 
its  resting-place.  There  was  the  same  fragile  beau- 
ty, the  same  grace,  the  same  high-strung  energy. 
In  nothing  was  she  like  the  women  painted  for  him 
by  his  father's  hand — things  for  idle,  sensuous 
pleasure,  never  for  serious  action. 

Plunged  in  a  happy  confusion  of  thought,  he  had 
once  more  relapsed  into  silence,  from  which  she 
startled  him  with  a  question  evidently  connected 
with  their  previous  conversation. 

"And  so  you  have  lived  all  your  life  in  this  lovely 
garden?"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  with  a  grave 
wonder  in  her  eyes. 

"All  my  life,"  he  answered. 

"You  have  never  seen  anything  of  the  world?" 

"Never."  He  felt  the  pity  in  her  tone,  and  added, 
with  a  shamefacedness  curiously  in  contrast  with 
his  former  hauteur :  "But  I  have  read  much." 

"That  is  not  the  same  thing,"  she  returned.  "No 
book  could  make  you  understand  how  wonderful 
and  beautiful  things  are." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  for  a  second  time  their 
eyes  met. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said.  "Hitherto  I  have 
thought  myself  all-wise.  I  have  studied  hard,  and 
I  belitvtd  there  was  nothing  I  did  not  know.  Now 


CIRCE  49 

I  see  that  there  are  wonders  in  the  world  of  which 
I  have  never  even  dreamed." 

Her  glance  wavered  beneath  the  undisguised  ad- 
miration in  his  eyes  and  voice.  Then  she  asked 
gently : 

"Now  that  you  have  seen,  will  you  not  leave 
your  hermitage?  Surely  it  is  wrong  to  shut  one's 
heart  against  the  world  in  which  one  lives.  There 
is  so  much  work  to  be  done,  so  much  to  learn,  and 
you  have  been  granted  power  and  wealth,  Your 
Highness.  The  call  upon  your  help  is  greater  than 
upon  others." 

His  brows  knitted. 

"Do  you  hate  us  so?"  she  asked. 

"Hate  you?"  he  repeated  wonderingly.  "Why 
should  I  hate  you?" 

"Yet,  from  your  tone,  I  judged  that  you  had  kept 
seclusion  because  intercourse  with  my  country-peo- 
ple meant  defilement,"  she  said  boldly. 

'A  flush  crept  up  under  his  dark  skin. 

"Those  are  things  I  can  not  explain,"  he  said ; 
"but  they  have  nothing  to  do  with  hatred.  I  have 
heard  much  of  the  English  heroes.  Their  deeds  of 
daring  and  self-sacrifice  have  filled  my  heart  with 
love  and  veneration.  I  know  that  they  are  the 
greatest  and  noblest  people  of  the  earth.  I  love 
great  and  noble  people.  I  do  not  hate  them." 

"I  am  glad,"  she  said. 

They  had  reached  the  gates  which  opened  out 
on  to  the  highroad,  and  as  though  by  mutual  consent 
both  came  to  a  standstill. 

"Your  Highness  has  been  most  good  to  me,"  she 
went  on.  "I  can  find  my  way  perfectly  now.  I  am 


50  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

only  puzzled  to  know  how  I  should  ever  have  lost 
it  so  much  as  to  have  wandered  into  your  garden." 

"Some  sentry  must  have  slept,"  he  remarked 
grimly. 

"But  you  will  not  punish  any  one?" 

"Whoever  it  was,  he  was  only  the  servant  of  des- 
tiny, like  us  all,"  he  said.  "No  harm  shall  come  to 
him."  He  paused,  and  then  added  with  a  slight 
effort:  "One  of  the  sentries  shall  accompany  you." 

"No,  no,"  she  answered  energetically.  "That  is 
not  necessary.  I  would  rather  go  alone." 

He  pointed  upward  to  the  sky,  whose  blue  was  deep- 
ening into  the  violet  shades  of  night. 

"It  will  be  dark  before  you  reach  your  destina- 
tion," he  said.  "Are  you  not  afraid?" 

She  laughed  merrily. 

"Of  what  should  I  be  afraid?  There  are  no  man- 
eaters  about  here,  as  I  understand.  As  for  men,  I 
am  prepared  to  encounter  at  least  six  of  them. 
Look !"  She  drew  from  the  bosom  of  her  dress  a 
small  revolver  of  exquisite  workmanship,  and  held 
it  out  to  him.  "It  has  all  six  chambers  loaded,"  she 
added. 

He  took  the  weapon,  pretending  to  examine  it; 
but  his  pulses  had  recommenced  their  painful  beat- 
ing, and  he  saw  nothing  but  her  face. 

"Are  all  Englishwomen  so  brave  and  beautiful?" 

This  time  she  did  not  laugh  at  the  simplicity  of 
the  question. 

"Come  and  see,"  she  answered  boldly.  He  said 
nothing,  and  she  went  on :  "At  any  rate,  I  must  go 
now.  My  people  will  be  very  anxious,  and  I  have 


CIRCE  51 

so  much  to  tell  them.  They  will  envy  me  the  priv- 
ilege I  have  enjoyed  of  seeing  your  wonderful  gar- 
dens. I  shall  tell  them  how  kind  you  have  been  to 
a  foolish  wanderer." 

"If  the  gardens  please  you,  they  are  always  open 
to  you,"  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"I  am  afraid  it  is  not  possible.  You  see,  I  could 
not  come  alone.  Propriety  will  forgive  me  this 
once,  because  it  was  an  accident — a  second  time, 
and  my  reputation  would  be  gone  for  ever."  She 
held  out  her  hand  frankly.  "So  it  must  be  good-by 
for  ever !" 

An  instant  he  hesitated,  torn  between  a  deep  in- 
grained principle  and  desire.  Then  he  took  the 
small  hand  in  his  own. 

"It  will  not  be  good-by  for  ever,"  he  said.  /'We 
shall  meet  again." 

"I  should  be  glad.  We  have  been  quite  good 
friends,  haven't  we?  But  you  see,  you  will  be  in  a 
garden  into  which  I  may  not  enter,  and  I  in  a  world 
which  for  you  is  forbidden  ground.  I  am  afraid 
there  is  no  hope." 

"Nevertheless,  we  shall  meet  again,"  he  repeated. 

"Why  are  you  so  certain?" 

He  smiled  dreamily. 

"Nothing  in  this  world  happens  without  pur- 
pose," he  answered.  "So  much  my  books  and  eyes 
have  taught  me.  We  do  not  drift  aimlessly  into 
each  other's  lives.  We  are  borne  on  the  breast  of 
a  strong  current  which  flows  out  of  the  river  of 
Fate,  and  whether  we  meet  for  good  or  evil  is  ac- 


52  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

cording  to  the  will  of  God.  But  of  one  thing  I  am 
sure :  it  must  be  for  good  or  evil." 

For  a  moment  she  said  nothing.  Her  face  was 
turned  away  from  him,  and  when  at  last  she  spoke, 
her  voice  had  lost  something  of  its  daring  certainty. 

"I  hope,  then,  our  meeting  is  for  our  good,"  she 
said. 

"I  feel  that  it  is,"  he  answered. 

He  led  her  past  the  bewildered,  terrified  sentry  on 
to  the  grey,  dusty  highroad.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
his  feet  had  crossed  the  threshold. 

"I  shall  watch  you  till  you  are  out  of  sight,"  he 
said.  "Good-by." 

"Good-by — and  thank  you!" 

According  to  his  word,  he  stood  where  she  had 
left  him,  his  eyes  fixed  immovably,  like  those  of  a 
bronze  statue,  on  the  slight,  elastic  figure,  as  it 
hurried  toward  the  lights  of  the  distant  Station.  When 
at  last  the  purple  mist  had  swallowed  her  from  his 
sight,  he  looked  up  toward  the  heavens. 

Just  where  the  mist  ended  and  the  clear  sky  be- 
gan, the  evening  star  rose  in  its  first  splendor  and 
shone  through  the  dry  atmosphere,  signaling  to  its  fel- 
lows that  night  was  come.  One  by  one  others  followed. 
As  time  passed,  the  moon  in  a  cloud  of  silver  lifted 
herself  in  stately  progress  above  the  black  outline  of 
the  jungle  and  touched  with  her  first  beams  the  filigree 
minarets  of  the  temple. 

Nehal  Singh  bowed  his  head  in  prayer. 

"Oh,  Lord  Brahma,  I  thank  thee!" 

A  short-lived  breath  of  evening  air  caught  up  the 
passionate  murmur  of  his  voice  and  mingled  it  with 
the  rustling  of  the  Sacred  Tree  whose  restless, 


CIRCE  53 

shimmering,  silver  leaves  hung  above  his  head.  He 
understood  their  whisper  as  he  listened.  It  was 
the  accents  of  the  god  to  whom  he  prayed,  and  all 
the  poetic  mysticism  of  his  nature  responded  to  the 
call. 

"Oh,  Lord  Brahma,  Creator,  I  thank  thee!"  he 
repeated;  then  turned,  and  with  head  still  bowed, 
passed  back  through  the  high  marble  gates. 


CHAPTER  V 

ARCHIBALD    TRAVERS    PLAYS    BRIDGE 

THE  ayah  put  the  last  touches  to  Beatrice  Gary's 
golden  hair,  drew  back  a  little  to  judge  the  general 
effect,  and  then  handed  her  mistress  the  hand- 
glass. 

"Is  that  well  so,  missy?"  she  asked.  "Missy  look 
wonderful  to-night — wonderful !" 

Beatrice  examined  herself  carefully  and  critical- 
ly, without  any  show  of  impatience.  Only  a  close 
observer  would  have  noticed  that  her  eyes  had  the 
strained,  concentrated  look  of  a  person  whose 
thoughts  are  centered  elsewhere  than  on  the  imme- 
diate subject. 

"Yes,  that  will  do,"  she  assented,  after  a  moment. 
"You  have  done  extra  well  to-night.  You  can  go." 

"Not  help  missy  with  dress?" 

"No,  you  can  go.  I  shall  only  want  you  again 
when  I  come  back." 

The  ayah  fidgeted  with  the  garments  that  lay 
scattered  about  the  room,  but  an  imperative  ges- 
ture hastened  her  exit,  and  she  slipped  silently  from 
the  room,  drawing  the  curtains  after  her. 

Beatrice  watched  her  departure  in  the  glass,  and 
then,  turning  in  her  chair,  looked  at  the  languid,  ex- 
hausted figure  upon  the  couch. 

"Now,  if  you  have  anything  to  say,  mother,  say 
it,"  she  said.  "We  are  quite  alone." 

54 


55 

"I  have  a  great  deal  to  say,"  Mrs.  Gary  began,  in 
a  tone  of  extreme  injury,  "and  first  of  all,  I  must 
ask  you  not  to  interrupt  me  in  the  way  you  did  just 
now  before  the — the  what-do-you-call-it? — the  ayah. 
I  can  not  and  will  not  stand  being  corrected  before 
my  own  servants." 

"I  did  not  correct  you,"  Beatrice  returned  coldly. 
"I  stopped  you  from  making  disclosures  to  ears 
which  know  enough  English  to  understand  more 
than  is  good  for  either  of  us,  and  whose  discretion 
is  on  a  par  with  that  of  our  late  friend,  Mary  Jane. 
It  seems  impossible  to  make  you  realize  that  English 
is  not  a  dead  language." 

"You  are  very  rude  to  me !"  Mrs.  Gary  protested, 
in  high,  quavering  tones  that  threatened  tears. 
"Very  rude !  Beatrice,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed — " 

"I  am  not  rude.  I  am  only  telling  you  the  simple 
truth." 

"Well,  then,  you  are  not  respectful." 

"Respectful !"  The  reiteration  was  accompanied 
with  a  laugh  which  brought  into  use  all  the  harsh, 
unpleasing  notes  in  the  girl's  voice.  She  turned 
away  from  her  mother,  and  with  one  white  elbow 
resting  on  the  dressing-table,  began  to  play  idly 
with  the  silver  ornaments.  "No,  I  suppose  I  am  not 
respectful,"  she  went  on  calmly.  "I  think  we  are 
too  intimate  for  that,  mother.  We  know  each  other  too 
well,  and  have  spoken  about  things  too  plainly.  People, 
I  imagine,  only  retain  the  respect  of  their  fellow-crea- 
tures so  long  as  they  keep  themselves  and  their  projects 
a  haloed  mystery.  That  isn't  our  case.  There  are  no 
haloes  or  mysteries  between  us,  are  there?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  Mrs. 


56  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

Gary  declared  plaintively.  "There  are  moments, 
Beatrice,  when  I  think  you  talk  nonsense." 

"I  am  sure  you  do!"  An  ironical  smile  played 
an  instant  round  the  small  mouth,  then  she  went 
on  calmly:  "Let  us  put  our  personal  grievances 
against  each  other  aside,  mother.  Revenons  a  nos  ment- 
ions. You  were  saying,  when  I  interrupted  you,  that 
you  were  afraid  of  Mr.  Travers.  Why?" 

"Why!  You  know  as  well  as  I  do.  I  recognized 
him  at  once,  and  the  sight  of  his  face  nearly  gave 
me  a  heart  stroke.  Of  course  you  remember  him. 
He  gave  evidence  against  your  poor,  dear  father 
when — " 

Beatrice  Gary  held  up  her  hand. 

"That  is  one  of  the  advantages  of  having  dis- 
carded the  mystery  and  halo,"  she  said.  "We  do 
not  need  to  go  into  any  details  concerning  ourselves 
or  the  past.  I  know  quite  well  to  what  you  refer. 
To  be  quite  honest,  I  did  recognize  him,  only  I  did 
not  let  him  see  that  I  did." 

"And  then  you  ask  why  I  am  afraid !" 

"I  fail  to  see  what  harm  he  can  do  us.'* 

"He  can  tell  the  truth." 

Beatrice  Gary  rose  and  began  to  slip  into  the 
white  silk  dress  which  hung  across  the  back  of  her 
chair. 

"The  truth !"  she  said  meditatively.  "That  is 
something,  mother,  of  which,  I  fear,  you  and  I  will 
never  rid  ourselves.  It  has  chased  us  out  of  Eng- 
land and  out  of  all  possible  parts  of  Europe;  and, 
large  though  India  is,  it  •  seems  already  to  have 
tracked  us  down.  It  has  a  good  nose  for  fugitives, 
apparently." 


TRAVERS  PLAYS  BRIDGE  57 

Mrs.  Gary  sat  up,  mopping  her  florid  face  free 
from  tears  of  irritability. 

"You  will  drive  me  mad  one  of  these  days !"  she 
cried.  "You  laugh  at  everything.  You  laugh  even 
at  this,  though  it  concerns  our  whole  future  here — " 

"Excuse  me  for  interrupting  you  again.  I  take 
the  matter  very  much  to  heart — so  much  so  that 
there  are  moments  when  I  am  thoroughly  weary  of 
it,  and  feel  inclined  to  write  on  a  large  placard: 
'Here  standeth  Beatrice  McConnel,  alias  Gary, 
daughter  of  the — 

"Be  silent!"  broke  in  the  elder  woman  furiously. 
"Do  you  really  want  the  whole  Station  to  be  taken 
into  our  confidence?" 

"I  am  sorry !"  with  half-sincere,  half-mocking 
contrition.  "I  am  as  bad  as  you  are.  But,  as  I  say, 
there  are  times  when  I  should  like  to  shriek  the 
truth  in  the  world's  face,  and  see  what  it  would  do. 
I  don't  think  anything  could  be  worse  than  our 
present  life." 

"If  you  did  anything  of  the  sort,  I  should  take 
poison,"  Mrs.  Gary  declared. 

"No,  you  wouldn't.  We  should  move  on  to  an- 
other continent,  and  try  our  luck  there,  that's  all. 
It's  the  very  futility  of  truth-telling  which  pre- 
vents me  from  experimenting  in  that  direction. 
Perhaps,  as  you  suggest,  Mr.  Travers  will  take  the 
task  from  my  shoulders." 

Mrs.  Gary  rose  to  her  feet  and  came  ponderously 
over  to  her  daughter's  side.  Her  voice,  when  she 
spoke,  was  troubled  with  genuine  emotion. 

"Beatrice,"  she  said,  "I  don't  ask  respect  of  you — 
I  don't  suppose  it  would  be  any  sort  of  good  if  I 


58  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

did.  You  haven't  any  respect  in  you.  But  at  any 
rate  have  some  consideration  for  me.  You  needn't 
make  my  life  worse  than  it  is.  It's  no  use  your  say- 
ing to  me,  'Give  up  the  money,  and  hide  your  head.' 
I  can't.  I  never  could  hide  my  head,  and  at  the 
bottom  I  don't  believe  you  could  either.  It's  the 
way  we  are  made.  Ever  since  I  was  a  little  child, 
and  played  about  in  my  father's  shop,  I  wanted 
people  to  bow  down  to  me  and  respect  me.  I  meant 
that  one  day  they  should.  When  I  married  they 
did — for  a  time  at  least.  When  the  crash  came, 
and — and  all  the  shame,  I  just  ran  away  from  it. 
I  couldn't  have  done  anything  else.  Ever  since 
then  I  have  been  trying  to  build  things  up  else- 
where, and  I  had  to  have  money  for  it.  You  can't 
blame  me,  Beatrice.  You  aren't  any  better.  You 
always  want  to  be  first  in  your  singing  and  your 
painting,  you  always  want  the  best  of  what's  go- 
ing. You  always  want  to  be  admired  and  success- 
ful in  everything  you  do.  You  take  after  me  in 
that."  A  note  of  curious  pride  crept  into  her  voice. 
"So  it's  just  like  this,  Beatrice — I  can't  live  without 
position.  I  may  not  take  poison,  but  I  shall  die  all 
the  same  if  I  can't  play  a  part  in  the  world.  All  I 
ask  is  that  you  help  me  all  you  can.  It's  not  much. 
I've  been  a  pretty  decent  mother  to  you.  You 
can't  say  that  there  was  ever  a  time  when  I  grudged 
you  a  pretty  frock  or  a  dance — "  She  stopped  in 
her  long  speech,  yielding  to  Beatrice's  irrepressible 
gesture  of  impatience. 

"You  needn't  have  gone  into  so  much  explana- 
tion," the  girl  said,  fastening  a  small  diamond  pen- 
dant round  her  white  neck.  "I  know  you  and  I 


TRAVERS  PLAYS  BRIDGE  59 

know  myself.  As  to  my  gratitude,  I  am  fully  aware 
of  what  I  owe  you,  and  am  ready  to  pay.  What  do 
you  want  me  to  do?" 

"Don't  go  against  me." 

"I  haven't  done  so  yet.  I  don't  mean  to.  As  far 
as  I  can  recollect,  I've  pulled  us  both  out  of  as  many 
scrapes  as  you  have  landed  us  into,"  Beatrice  re- 
plied. 

"I  know.  That's  why  I  want  you  to  do  your  best 
now." 

"To  do  what?" 

"To  keep  Marut  tolerable  for  us." 

"I  can't  prevent  Mr.  Travers  gossiping  if  he  wants 
to." 

A  smile  flitted  over  Mrs.  Gary's  fat  face,  robbing 
it  of  its  good-nature  and  leaving  it  merely  vulgarly 
cunning. 

"You  could  if  you  wanted  to." 

"How?" 

"Oh,  you  know !  You  have  a  way  with  men.  You 
could  shut  his  mouth." 

Beatrice  laughed  outright. 

"There  are  moments  when  you  betray  your  origin 
in  the  most  painful  way,  mother,"  she  said  cruelly. 
"A  remark  like  that  in  Mrs.  Carmichael's  hearing, 
and  we  should  find  Marut  too  hot  for  us  without  any 
assistance  from  Mr.  Travers." 

"I'm  sorry,"  Mrs.  Gary  apologized  humbly.  "It 
slipped  out.  What  I  meant  was,  that  I  am  sure 
you  could  manage  him.  And  you  know  you  could, 
Beatrice." 

Beatrice  looked  at  her  reflection  in  the  glass. 
There  was  little  feminine  vanity  in  the  glance — 


60  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

rather  a  cool  judging  and  appraising,  untempered 
with  any  personal  prejudice. 

"I  suppose  I  could,"  she  admitted. 

"Won't  you?" 

"Would  it  make  you  very  happy?" 

"It  would  be  my  first  moment's  real  peace  since 
I  saw  Mr.  Travers  at  the  garden-party." 

"Well,  I'll  do  my  best." 

"You  promise?" 

"Yes,  I'll  promise  if  you  want  me  to." 

Mrs.  Gary  drew  a  deep  sigh  of  relief. 

"That's  one  thing  about  you,  you  keep  your  prom- 
ises, Beatrice,"  she  said. 

"It  is  rather  curious,  under  the  circumstances, 
isn't  it?"  the  younger  woman  returned,  submitting 
to  the  mother's  grateful  embrace  with  an  indiffer- 
ence which  seemed  to  indicate  more  than  an  indiffer- 
ence— rather  a  stoic,  smothered  antipathy.  When 
it  was  over,  and  Mrs.  Gary  had  once  more  en- 
sconced herself  on  the  lounge,  Beatrice  shook  her 
shoulders  as  though  thrusting  something  intense- 
ly disagreeable  away  from  her. 

"In  any  case,  it  may  be  too  late,"  she  said,  put- 
ting the  finishing  touches  to  her  toilet.  "If  Mr. 
Travers  meant  to  tell,  he  has  probably  done  so  al- 
ready. I  shall  be  able  to  judge  by  Mrs.  Carmi- 
chael's  hand-shake  to-night." 

"We  must  hope  for  the  best,"  returned  Mrs.  Gary, 
with  pious  resignation. 

The  two  women  relapsed  into  silence.  Beatrice 
hovered  lightly  about  the  room,  collecting  her  fan, 
handkerchief  and  gloves,  every  now  and  again  cast- 
ing the  same  curious,  unloving  glance  at  herself 


TRAVERS  PLAYS  BRIDGE  61 

in  the  long  mirror.  Presently  she  went  to  the  win- 
dow and  pulled  aside  the  muslin  curtain. 

"Some  one  is  driving  up  the  avenue,"  she  said. 
"It's  a  dog-cart.  I  wonder  who  it  is." 

"A  dog-cart!"  Mrs.  Gary  repeated  thoughtfully. 
"Now,  who  has  a  dog-cart  in  Marut?  Not  many 
people,  I  fancy."  A  dull  flush  mounted  her  coarse 
cheeks.  "Why,"  she  exclaimed,  "I  believe  Mr. 
Travers  has !" 

Beatrice  dropped  the  curtain  back  into  its  place. 

"That  would  be  a  coincidence,  wouldn't  it?"  she 
remarked,  with  a  faint  irony  from  which  her  tone 
had  never  been  wholly  free. 

A  minute  later  the  ayah  entered  the  room. 

"Travers  Sahib  is  here,"  she  announced.  "He 
asks  if  missy  drive  with  him  to  the  Colonel  Sahib 
in  his  cart.  Travers  Sahib  waiting." 

Beatrice  and  her  mother  exchanged  glances. 

"Very  well,"  Beatrice  then  said  quietly.  "Tell 
Travers  Sahib  I  shall  be  delighted.  Paul  need  not 
bring  round  the  carriage." 

The  ayah  retired,  and  with  an  undisturbed  calm 
Beatrice  proceeded  to  slip  into  her  evening  cloak. 

"At  any  rate,  he  hasn't  spoken  yet,"  she  said. 
"Fate  seems  to  mean  well  with  you,  mother." 

"It  all  depends  on  you,  Beatrice,"  the  other  re- 
turned impressively. 

"Do  you  think  so?  Well,  I  have  half-an-hour's 
drive  before  me — tete-a-tete.  I  dare  say  I  shall  man- 
age. Good  night!"  She  patted  her  mother  lightly 
on  the  hand  as  she  passed  her  on  the  way  to  the 
door. 

"Good-by,  my  dear.    Do  your  best,  won't  you?" 


62  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

"Haven't  I  been  brought  up  to  do  my  best?" 
Beatrice  answered  with  a  laugh. 

She  hurried  on  to  the  verandah  which  faced  out 
on  the  drive,  the  ayah  accompanying  her  with  numer- 
ous wraps  and  shawls.  Archibald  Travers,  who  had 
remained  seated,  greeted  her  with  a  cheerful  wave  of 
the  whip. 

"Please  excuse  my  getting  down,  Miss  Gary,"  he 
said.  "My  horse  is  in  a  state  of  mind  which  does 
not  allow  for  politeness.  Can  you  trust  yourself  to 
his  tender  care?" 

"I  am  not  in  the  least  nervous,"  she  answered, 
scrambling  up  to  his  side,  "and  a  drive  through  this 
lovely  air  is  worth  a  few  risks.  I  was  dreading  the 
half-hour  alone  in  our  stuffy  brougham." 

"I'm  glad  I  came,  then,"  he  said.  "I  heard  that 
Mrs.  Gary  was  ill  and  could  not  go,  but  I  was  not 
sure  whether  you  would  care  for  it.  There,  are 
you  tucked  in  all  right?  Can  we  start?" 

"Yes,  by  all  means." 

He  cracked  his  whip,  and  immediately  the  im- 
patient chestnut  sprang  forward  into  the  darkness. 
They  swayed  dangerously  through  the  compound 
gates  on  to  the  broad,  straight  highroad. 

Beatrice  laughed  with  excitement. 

"That  was  splendid !"  she  exclaimed,  pulling  her 
cloak  closer  round  her.  "How  well  you  drive !" 

"You  seem  to  enjoy  danger,"  he  said,  with  an 
amused  smile. 

"Yes,  I  enjoy  it,"  she  answered,  more  gravely. 
"It  is  the  only  flavoring  which  I  have  hitherto  dis- 
covered in  life.  The  rest  is  rather  insipid,  don't  you 
think?" 


TRAVERS  PLAYS  BRIDGE  63 

"You  talk  like  a  man,"  he  said. 

"I  have  been  brought  up  to  be  independent  and 
fight  for  myself,"  she  returned.  "That  sort  of  thing 
does  away  with  the  principal  differences  between 
the  sexes." 

As  she  spoke  they  dashed  suddenly  into  an  ave- 
nue of  high  trees  through  whose  branches  the 
moonlight  played  fantastic,  uncanny  shadows  on 
the  white  road.  Travers'  horse  shied  violently,  and 
for  some  minutes  his  work  was  cut  out  for  him  in  paci- 
fying the  excited  animal.  When  they  were  once  more 
bowling  smoothly  over  the  open  plain,  he  glanced  down 
at  the  girl  beside  him. 

She  was  smiling  to  herself. 

"You  have  nerve!"  he  remarked  admiringly. 

"I  have  lots  more  when  it  is  wanted,"  she  an- 
swered, looking  up  at  him.  The  light  struck  full  on 
their  faces,  and  they  could  read  each  other's  expres- 
sions as  clearly  as  if  it  had  been  midday. 

"How  much  farther  is  it  at  the  rate  we  are  go- 
ing?" she  asked. 

"Another  twenty  minutes." 

"Another  twenty  minutes  !"  she  repeated  thought- 
fully. "That  is  quite  a  long  time,  isn't  it?" 

He  flicked  his  whip  across  the  horse's  ears. 

"Yes,  and  I'm  glad,"  he  said.  "Otherwise,  I 
shouldn't  have  seen  much  of  you.  I  happen  to  know 
that  I  am  taking  in  Miss  Caruthers  to  dinner,  and 
dinner  takes  up  most  of  the  evening  at  these  func- 
tions." 

"You  are  taking  in  Lois  Caruthers !"  she  said, 
laughing.  "I  know  of  some  one  who  will  be  an- 
noyed." 


64  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

"Stafford,  you  mean?" 

"And  Lois  herself." 

He  joined  in  her  amusement. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"You  have  a  good-natured  hostess.  I  dare  say  the 
arrangement  could  be  altered  if  you  wished  it." 

"But  I  don't.  They  happen  to  be  my  arrange- 
ments, you  see." 

"Oh!"  she  ejaculated,  somewhat  taken  back. 

"On  my  left  there  will  be  Mrs.  James,  who,  as 
you  perhaps  know,  is  stone  deaf,"  he  went  on  calm- 
ly. "On  Miss  Caruthers'  right  will  be  Mr.  James, 
who  from  long  custom  never  opens  his  mouth  ex- 
cept to  put  something  into  it.  Stafford  will  be 
right  at  the  other  end  of  the  table." 

"You  are  malicious,"  she  said. 

"Not  a  bit.  I  only  go  hard  for  what  I  want, 
that's  all."  He  chuckled  to  himself  and  then  went 
on:  "I've  confided  to  you  my  subtle  underground 
plans — why,  goodness  knows.  I  am  not  usually  of 
a  confiding  nature.  But  really,  Miss  Gary,  I  feel 
as  though  I  had  known  you  all  my  life." 

"We  have  already  plotted  together,"  she  said. 
"Possibly  that  forms  some  sort  of  link  between  us." 

He  glanced  down  at  her,  and  this  time,  as  she  did 
not  return  his  gaze,  he  was  free  to  study  her  calm, 
undisturbed  profile. 

"By  Jove!"  he  exclaimed,  half  under  his  breath, 
"I  don't  blame  the  young  fool  for  being  taken  in." 

Her  brows  contracted  sharply. 

"Thank  you.    I  suppose  that  is  a  compliment." 

"It  is  meant  for  one.  By  the  way,  are  you  really 
sure  of  your  success?" 


TRAVERS  PLAYS  BRIDGE  65 

"Perfectly  sure." 

"That's  a  good  thing.  We  shall  have  the  laugh 
over  old  Stafford  and  his  grandmother's  ideas  if  it 
comes  off.  All  I  fear  is  that  the  youth's  impression- 
able mind  may  lose  its  impressions  as  quickly  as  it 
receives  them." 

"I  don't  think  so.    He  did  not  seem  that  sort." 

"Besides,"  added  Travers,  with  a  sudden  drawl, 
"your  face  is  not  one  that  a  man  forgets  easily,  Miss 
Gary." 

She  stirred  very  slightly  in  her  seat.  It  was  the 
instinctive  movement  of  a  woman  bracing  herself 
secretly  for  a  coming  shock. 

"Really?" 

"Yes,  really.  That  was  what  I  meant  to  tell  you 
the  other  day,  but  there  was  no  fitting  opportunity. 
I  recognized  you  at  once." 

"And  I  you,"  she  returned. 

He  whistled. 

"So  we  recognized  each  other  and  didn't  recognize 
each  other.  Rather  a  queer  thing,  eh  ?" 

Again  there  was  that  scarcely  noticeable  stiffen- 
ing of  her  whole  body. 

"I  see  nothing  queer  about  it.  We  were  both  taken 
aback,  and  after  the  first  shock  we  realized  that  to 
acknowledge  a  previous  meeting  was  not  to  either 
of  our  advantages.  You  were  ashamed;  and  I — 
well,  you  can  guess  my  reasons." 

"By  Jove!  You  know,  you  really  are  plucky!" 
he  burst  out,  with  genuine  admiration. 

"Thank  you.  You  have  intimated  that  to  me 
already,  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  there  is  no  ques- 
tion of  pluck.  I'm  taking  the  bull  by  the  horns 


66  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

because  I  must.  Mr.  Travers,  I  can't  live  in  the 
same  place  with  you  and  not  know  if  you  are  go- 
ing to  explode  the  mine  under  our  feet  or  not.  I 
may  have  nerve,  but  I  haven't  got  nerve  enough 
for  that." 

"I  see.  You  want  to  know  whether  I  am  going 
to  gossip  or  hold  my  tongue.  Is  that  it?" 

"Yes,  that's  it." 

"Suppose  I  gossip?" 

"I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  be  our  enemy, 
so  I  don't  mind  admitting  to  you  that  it  would 
spoil  our  plans." 

"What  may  they  be?" 

"Firstly,  to  get  clear  of  everything  that  has  hap- 
pened. We've  tried  to  do  that  in  different  places 
all  over  Europe,  without  success.  Something  or 
somebody  has  always  cropped  up  and  driven  us 
away.  It  was  just  as  though  every  one  least  con- 
cerned in  the  matter  had  made  up  their  minds  to 
track  us  down.  At  last  mother  thought  of  India, 
and  of  Marut  in  particular.  My  father  held  a 
small  post  somewhere  about  here  before  we  left 
for  England,  and  we  make  out  that  it  is  tender  as- 
sociations and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Of  course,  we 
might  be  found  out  any  day,  but  perhaps  people 
are  not  so  curious  out  here,  and  it  gives  us  a  rest." 

"Might  I  ask  why  you  take  all  this  trouble?" 

"I  was  going  to  tell  you.  Because  my  mother 
wants  what  she  calls  position — she  wants  to  mix  with 
the  best.  We  couldn't  do  that  in  England,  for  the  rea- 
sons I  have  given  you.  As  for  me — I  fulfil  my  des- 
tiny. I  am  seeking  a  suitable  husband," 


TRAVERS  PLAYS  BRIDGE  67 

He  drew  in  his  breath  in  something  that  was  not 
unlike  a  gasp. 

"My  dear  Miss  Gary,  do  you  know  what  the 
world — particularly  the  woman  world — would  call 
you?" 

"Does  call  me,  you  mean?  Of  course.  An  adven- 
turess." 

"To  be  quite  frank,  you've  hit  it.  But  I  don't.  I 
call  you  a  jolly  extraordinary  and  clever  woman." 

"Please  don't  pay  me  compliments,"  she  said 
coldly.  "My  cleverness — if  I  have  any — is  not 
more  than  that  of  any  hunted  animal  who  seeks 
cover  where  best  he  can.  As  to  my  being  extraor- 
dinary, I  do  not  see  that  you  have  any  reason  to 
call  me  so.  You  might  as  well  say  that  it  is  extraor- 
dinary when  a  weed  springs  up  where  a  weed  has 
been  sown — " 

"Or  a  flower,"  he  interposed  suavely. 

She  sank  back  in  her  seat,  saying  nothing.  Her 
silence  was  a  weary  sort  of  protest. 

Travers  pulled  out  his  watch  with  his  free  hand. 

"We  have  only  five  minutes  more,"  he  said.  "We 
are  splendidly  up  to  time.  I  tell  you  what,  Miss 
Gary — you  can  eat  Colonel  Carmichael's  dinner  in 
peace."  She  looked  quickly  at  him.  "I  mean  that 
I  shall  hold  my  tongue.  I  don't  know  that  I  ever 
intended  doing  anything  else.  I  am  not  responsible 
to  society,  and  in  any  case,  no  direct  blame  for  the 
past  can  attach  itself  to  you.  As  it  is,  after  your 
confidence,  I  give  you  my  word  that  I'll  do  my 
best  to  see  you  through  here.  You  deserve  it,  and 
I  have  always  had  a  sneaking  sympathy  for  the 


68  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

hunted  fox  and  the  much-abused  weed.  You  can 
be  quite  easy  in  your  mind." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  without  much  warmth. 

"I  have  only  one  condition — "  he  went  on,  and 
then  hesitated. 

"I  was  waiting  for  that,"  she  said. 

He  laughed  good-naturedly. 

"You  know  me  very  well  already." 

"I  know  men,"  she  retorted. 

"Well,  then,  I  have  a  condition.  Please  don't 
look  upon  me  as  a  sort  of  blackmailer.  If  you  don't 
choose  to  agree  to  the  condition,  you  needn't.  I 
shan't  on  that  account  go  round  gossiping  about 
your  affairs.  At  the  same  time,  I  expect  you  would 
rather  drive  a  fair  and  square  bargain  with  me  than 
be  in  any  way  in  my  debt." 

"You  are  quite  right,"  she  said  quickly. 

"My  condition  is  merely  this :  I  want  you,  if  the 
time  and  opportunity  ever  present  themselves,  to  lend 
me  a  hand  with  my  plans.  I  confess  privately  to 
you  I  have  one  or  two  irons  in  the  fire  up  at  Marut, 
and  that  it  is  pretty  hard  work  single-handed.  You 
are  a  clever  woman,  say  what  you  like,  and  your 
help  would  be  invaluable." 

"In  what  way?" 

"I  will  put  it  as  short  as  possible.  You  know, 
Miss  Gary,  I  am  not  a  rich  man,  but  I  have  got  some 
big  ideas  and  one  at  least  of  them  requires  wealth 
to  be  carried  out.  I  have  every  reason  to  believe 
that  considerable  mineral  treasure  lies  buried  under 
the  native  Bazaar  in  Marut,  but  I  can  do  nothing 
unless  some  one  comes  to  my  assistance  both  with 
authority  and  money.  The  Rajah  is  the  very  man, 


TRAVERS  PLAYS  BRIDGE  69 

if  only  I  can  get  him  interested  in  ray  project.  Will 
you  help  me?" 

"As  I  have  gone  so  far  I  might  as  well  go  on," 
she  assented  indifferently. 

"Thanks.  Then  there  is  something  else — I  want 
to  marry  Lois  Caruthers." 

Beatrice  started  and  looked  up  at  him  as  though 
she  thought  he  might  be  joking.  His  face  had  in- 
deed undergone  a  change,  but  there  was  something 
stern,  resolute,  almost  brutal  in  the  hard-set  profile. 

"Indeed?  Will  that  not  be  more  difficult?  There 
is  Stafford  in  the  way,  and  Stafford — " 

"Stafford  must  be  cleared  out  of  the  way,"  he  in- 
terrupted, with  a  cool  decision  which  his  expres- 
sion partly  belied.  "I  believe  she  is  fond  of  him 
and  he  of  her  in  a  Platonic  sort  of  fashion  which 
might  lead  to  marriage  and  might  not.  He  is  not 

the  danger.    There  is  a  fellow,  Nicholson,  though 

» 

He  stopped  short  and  seemed  for  an  instant  to 
be  plunged  in  his  own  thoughts. 

"Who  is  this  Nicholson?"  she  asked  curiously. 
"I  have  heard  his  name  constantly  since  I  have 
been  here.  People  talk  of  him  as  though  he  were 
a  demigod.  Why  are  you  afraid  of  him  ?" 

"Just  because  of  his  godlike  qualities,"  Travers 
explained,  with  a  laugh.  "In  earlier  ages,  no  doubt, 
he  would  have  been  a  god  and  among  the  natives 
he  is  one.  In  reality,  he  is  an  ordinary  mortal 
blessed  with  an  extraordinary  influence.  I  believe 
he  is  a  captain  in  some  native  regiment  on  the  fron- 
tiers and  has  done  grand  work  there.  I  heard  to- 
day that  he  is  coming  down  to  Marut  on  leave." 


70  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"Oh—?" 

"He  was  Lois'  old  playfellow,"  Travers  added 
pointedly. 

"And  so  you  are  afraid  of  him?" 

"All  women  adore  heroes  of  that  type,"  he  re- 
marked without  mockery  or  bitterness,  "and  when 
Nicholson  appears  I  have  a  fair  idea  that  Stafford 
and  I  will  have  to  be  content  with  the  back  seats 
in  Lois'  affections.  You  see,  they  were  great  friends, 
and  moreover  the  Carmichaels  have  their  matrimonial 
eye  on  him.  So  it's  now  or  never  as  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned." 

"And  Stafford—?" 

He  looked  down  at  her  with  a  jolly  laugh. 

"He  must  find  consolation  elsewhere.  I  thought 
he  would  do  for  you,  Miss  Gary." 

"Thanks!" 

"Don't  be  ungrateful.  Rich,  good  position,  good 
family,  worthy  character,  a  trifle  slow,  not  to  say 
stupid — what  more  do  you  want?" 

"You  talk  as  though—" 

" — As  though  he  were  being  given  away  with  a 
pound  of  tea?  Well,  so  he  is  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses. One  can  do  anything  witfi  an  honest,  pig- 
headed man  like  that  if  only  one  takes  him  the  right 
way.  He  would  suit  you  clear  down  to  the  ground, 
and  if  you  will  help  me  I  will  help  you.  Is  that  a  bar- 
gain?" 

They  were  now  in  sight  of  their  destination,  and 
he  pulled  his  horse  into  a  walk. 

"Well,  what  do  you  say,  Miss  Gary?" 

He  tried  to  look  into  her  face,  but  it  was  turned 
resolutely  away,  and  all  he  could  see  was  a  grave 


TRAVERS  PLAYS  BRIDGE  71 

profile  which  might  have  belonged  to  a  much  older 
woman. 

"Well?"  he  repeated. 

They  were  entering  the  drive  which  led  up  to 
the  brightly  lighted  bungalow  before  she  answered. 

"It's  a  bargain  then,"  she  said.    "I  promise." 

He  pressed  her  hand  with  his  left. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said  cheerily.  "You  won't 
find  yourself  overburdened.  The  case  is  just  this: 
we're  partners,  you  and  I,  with  some  good  cards 
between  us.  Just  at  present  it's  my  call,  and  your 
hand  goes  down.  Do  you  understand?" 

"Pretty  well,"  she  answered. 

They  pulled  up  at  the  open  doorway,  and  flinging 
the  reins  to  the  waiting  syce,  Travers  sprang  to 
the  ground. 

"By  the  way,  I  believe  you  go  in  to  dinner  with 
Stafford,"  he  remarked  casually  as  he  helped  her 
to  alight.  "I  hope  you  will  get  on  well  together." 


CHAPTER  VI 

BREAKING    THE    BARRIER 

THE  Colonel's  dinner-party  was  Beatrice's  first 
great  triumph  in  the  face  of  her  enemies.  They 
were  all  there  and  all  armed  to  the  teeth  with  spite 
and  envy.  There  was,  for  instance,  Mrs.  Berry  with 
her  marriageable  if  somewhat  plain  daughter,  and 
many  more  women  besides  to  whom  the  beautiful 
girl  was  of  necessity  an  unforgivable  opponent.  The 
more  the  men  laughed  at  her  quick  and  occasionally 
rather  pointed  observations,  the  more  an  obvious  ad- 
miration shone  out  of  their  criticisms,  the  more  deter- 
mined the  hatred  became.  Among  themselves  they  had 
already  fulfilled  Travers'  prophecy  and  had  christened 
her  "the  Adventuress"  for  no  other  reason  than  that 
she  was  a  woman  with  the  same  ambitions  as  them- 
selves, but  better  accoutred  for  success.  Truly,  she  had 
made  no  bid  for  their  favor,  choosing  to  stand  alone 
and  without  their  support ;  but  even  had  she  done  so  it 
would  have  been  useless.  She  wore  an  enemy's 
color  in  her  face,  and  keen,  pitiless  eyes  had  already 
probed  into  the  innermost  depths  of  her  plans  and 
found  them  dangerous. 

In  the  middle  of  the  dinner  the  Colonel  broke 
the  news  that  the  whole  of  the  English  community 
had  been  invited  by  the  Rajah  to  a  reception  in  the 
palace  grounds.  He  made  the  announcement  with 

72 


BREAKING  THE  BARRIER  73 

evident  reluctance,  and  Beatrice  was  conscious  that 
Stafford,  who  sat  beside  her,  stiffened  and  frowned. 
The  sense  of  opposition  and  disapproval  on  the  part 
of  the  man  whom  she  had  set  out  to  conquer  put 
her  on  her  metal,  and  with  the  verve  and  sang- 
froid of  a  woman  too  sure  of  her  own  power  to  know 
fear,  she  related  her  adventure  in  the  temple.  Her 
hearers  listened,  according  to  their  sex,  with  amuse- 
ment, curiosity  and  pious  horror.  Some  were  unre- 
servedly delighted,  others — such  as  the  Colonel  and 
Stafford — struggled  between  a  certain  admiration 
for  her  and  a  decided  disapproval  of  her  action  and 
its  results.  Yet  Stafford  at  least  was  a  soldier  be- 
fore he  was  a  conventionalist,  and  her  bold,  well- 
played  comedy  in  the  temple  of  Vishnu,  told  sim- 
ply, but  with  fire  and  energy,  could  not  fail  to  stir 
to  flame  the  embers  of  his  own  daring.  From  that 
time  he  ceased  to  rivet  his  attention  to  the  other 
end  of  the  table,  where  Lois  was  sitting,  and  Bea- 
trice was  conscious  that  she  had  won  the  first  move 
in  the  great  game  which  she  had  set  herself  to  play. 
The  next  day  the  whole  Station  was  made  aware 
of  the  startling  change  in  the  Rajah's  attitude  and 
the  means  by  which  it  had  been  brought  about,  but 
no  one,  not  even  those  who  were  disposed  to  judge 
the  matter  in  its  most  serious  light,  guessed  what 
passed  within  the  palace  previous  to  the  sending 
out  of  the  now  famous  invitation.  For  the  greater 
part  of  the  English  community  the  whole  thing  was 
rather  a  bad  joke,  with  the  Rajah  for  its  victim. 
That  a  pretty  woman  should  have  unbarred  the 
gates  which  no  other  force,  diplomacy  or  cunning 
had  been  able  to  stir  was  a  matter  for  light,  some- 


74  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

what  contemptuous  laughter.  Rajah  Nehal  Singh 
was  nicknamed  the  Impressionable  Swain.  He  and 
Beatrice  Gary  were  linked  together  either  in  good- 
natured  chaff  or  malicious  earnest,  and  curiosity, 
thanks  to  the  dullness  of  the  season,  strained  itself 
in  expectation. 

Thus,  beyond  the  marble  gates  the  world  laughed, 
and  inside  Life  and  Death  had  faced  each  other 
and  for  a  moment  hung  in  the  balance. 

It  was  toward  the  cool  of  the  evening.  Behar  Asor 
and  the  prince  paced  slowly  backward  and  forward  in 
the  chief  entrance  hall  of  the  palace,  plunged  in  a  con- 
versation which  was  to  mark  a  final  stage  in  their  re- 
lationship toward  each  other.  Both  knew  it,  and  on  both 
faces  was  written  the  same  determination — a  determina- 
tion curiously  tempered  and  moulded  by  the  character 
of  the  man  himself.  On  Behar  Asor's  furrowed,  with- 
ered face  it  was  resolve,  armed  with  treachery  and  all 
the  hundred  and  one  weapons  of  oriental  cunning.  Ne- 
hal Singh's  head  was  lifted  in  calm,  unshakable  confi- 
dence. He  had  no  need  of  weapons.  He  had  seen 
his  destiny,  and  the  obstacle  which  would  be  thrown 
in  his  path  would,  with  equal  certainty,  be  thrown 
out  of  it.  He  felt  himself  extraordinarily  strong. 

His  very  surroundings  seemed  to  fortify  him  with 
their  splendor.  Other  parts  of  the  palace  bore  the 
grievous  traces  of  a  past  devastating  race-hatred; 
crumbling  pillars,  images  whose  jeweled  eyes  had 
been  made  dark  and  lifeless  by  robber  hands; 
broken  pavements,  defaced  carvings — all  these 
pointed  to  a  period  in  human  life  which  was  gone 
for  ever,  a  period  of  mad  fanaticism  and  passionate 
clinging  to  the  Old  in  defiance  of  the  New.  Here 


BREAKING  THE  BARRIER  75 

the  New  was  triumphant.  Hands  still  living  had 
raised  the  mighty  golden  dome ;  the  fountain  whose 
waters  bubbled  up  from  the  Sacred  Tank  within 
the  temple  was  his  own  creation.  The  whole  place 
became  a  sort  of  outward  and  visible  sign  of  the 
New  Life,  New  Era,  which  was  opening  out  before 
him,  and  the  old  man  at  his  side  was  nothing  more 
than  a  relic,  a  piece  of  clinging  wreckage.  Yes- 
terday he  had  been  a  wise  man  whose  judgment 
and  guidance  was  a  thing  to  be  considered. 

But  between  Yesterday  and  To-day  there  is  oc- 
casionally a  long  night  in  which  much  may  happen.  A 
life  may  go  out,  a  life  may  come  in;  a  devil  may 
become  a  saint,  or  a  saint  a  devil ;  a  man  may  swing 
from  one  pole  of  opinion  to  another,  and  this  last 
is  perhaps  the  easiest  of  all.  For  it  does  not  re- 
quire much  to  change  a  man's  standpoint.  A  very 
little  thing  will  make  him  turn  on  his  heel  and  look 
at  a  piece  of  the  landscape  which  he  has  hitherto 
chosen  to  ignore  or  despise,  and  probably  acknowl- 
edge that  it  is  finer  than  his  hitherto  obstinately 
retained  outlook.  A  very  little  thing — like  Colum- 
bus' egg — if  one  only  knew  just  what  it  was!  The 
little  thing  in  Nehal  Singh's  life  had  been  a  woman's 
face.  It  shone  between  him  and  his  old  gods ;  it 
smiled  at  him  from  amidst  the  shadows  of  his  imag- 
ination, beckoning  him  unceasingly  to  follow.  And 
he  was  following — with  the  reckless  speed  of  a  man 
who  had  been  kept  inactive  too  long  at  the  starting 
point  of  life. 

"I  am  weary  of  all  that  has  hitherto  been,"  he 
told  Behar  Asor.  "My  palace  has  become  a  prison 
from  which  I  must  free  myself.  The  very  air  I 


76  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

breathe  is  heavy  with  sleep  and  dreams.  It  suffo- 
cates me.  I  must  have  life — here  and  without." 

"I  understand  thee  too  well,"  came  the  answer 
from  compressed  lips.  "The  curse  is  on  thee.  Thou 
wilt  go  among  my  enemies,  and  it  is  I,  with  my 
mistaken  wisdom,  who  have  opened  thy  path  to 
them.  It  was  I  who  taught  thee  their  tongue,  their 
knowledge,  their  law,  that  when  the  time  came 
thou  shouldst  stand  before  them  more  than  their 
equal.  This  is  my  punishment." 

"It  is  no  punishment.    It  is  the  will  of  God." 

"The  will  of  God !"  The  old  man  threw  up  his 
hands  with  a  wild  laugh  that  echoed  among  the  pil- 
lars. "It  is  the  will  of  the  devil,  who  has  been  my 
curse  and  shall  be  thine !  Ay,  ay,  look  not  at  me ! 
It  is  true.  Thinkest  thou  that  I  have  brought  thee 
up  in  solitude  without  cause?  Thinkest  thou  that 
I  have  hidden  thee  like  a  miser  his  treasure,  in  the 
dark,  unseen  places,  for  a  whim?  Son,  I  have  suf- 
fered as  I  pray  thou  mayst  not  have  to  suffer,  and 
I  have  within  my  heart  a  serpent  of  hatred  whose 
sting  I  would  thou  couldst  feel."  He  paused,  biting  his 
lip  as  though  the  pain  he  described  was  actual  and 
physical.  "Go  not  among  the  Unbelievers !"  he 
continued  vigorously.  "Let  not  their  shadow  defile 
thee !  For  their  breath  is  poison,  and  in  their  eyes 
is  a  deadly  flame — or  if  thou  goest,  let  it  be  with 
steeled  breast  and  in  thy  right  hand  a  sword  of 
vengeance !" 

"I  can  not,"  Nehal  Singh  answered  impatiently. 
"Nor  do  I  believe  what  thou  sayest.  This  people  is 
surely  brave  and  good.  I  know,  for  I  have  read — " 

"Read!"  the  old  man  interrupted,  with  another 


BREAKING  THE  BARRIER  77 

burst  of  stormy  laughter.  "What  is  it  to  read?  To 
see  with  the  eyes  and  feel  with  the  body — that  alone 
can  bring  true  wisdom.  And  I  have  seen  and  felt ! 
Callest  thou  a  people  'good'  who  drink  our  hospi- 
tality and  spit  upon  us — who  hail  us  with  their 
unclean  right  hand  and  steal  our  honor  with  their 
left?" 

Nehal  Singh  stopped  short. 

"What  meanest  thou?"  he  demanded. 

"I  have  a  meaning!"  was  the  stern  answer.  "I 
will  tell  thee  now  what  I  have  never  told  thee  be- 
fore— I  will  tell  thee  of  a  young  man  who,  like  thy- 
self, was  fearless,  impetuous,  a  lover  of  the  new  and 
strange,  who  went  out  into  the  world,  and  welcomed 
the  White  People  as  a  deliverer  and  friend.  I  will 
tell  thee  how  he  flung  down  caste  and  prejudice  to 
welcome  them,  drank  in  their  Thought  and  Cul- 
ture, trembled  on  the  brink  of  their  Religion.  Al- 
ready the  path  had  been  broken  for  him.  His 
mother's  sister  had  married  out  of  her  race — an 
Englishman — I  know  not  how  it  came  about — and 
their  child  followed  in  her  steps.  I  will  tell  thee 
how  the  young  man  came  to  know  this  cousin  and 
her  husband,  also  an  Unbeliever.  How  often  these 
two  became  his  guests  I  will  not  tell  thee.  He  took 
pleasure  in  their  presence,  partly  for  his  mother's 
sake,  partly  because  the  white  race  had  become  dear 
to  him.  They  brought  others  with  them,  and  among 
them  an  English  officer.  Hear  now  further. 

"This  young  man  had  one  wife,  following  the  Eng- 
lish custom — one  wife  more  beautiful  than  her  sisters, 
whom  he  loved  as  a  man  loves  but  once  in  life. 
In  his  madness,  in  spite  of  warnings  of  his  priests, 


78  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

he  gave  her  the  freedom  almost  of  an  English- 
woman. Wheresoever  he  went  she  followed  him; 
with  her  at  his  right  hand  he  received  his  English 
guests ;  it  was  she  who  sang  to  them — "  He  ground 
his  teeth  in  a  sudden  outburst  of  rage.  "Mad,  mad 
was  I !  Mad  to  trust  a  woman,  and  to  trust  the 
stranger !  Son,  the  night  came  when  my  wife  sang 
no  more  to  me,  and  the  stranger's  shadow  ceased 
to  darken  my  threshold.  Three  years  I  sought 
them — three  years;  then  one  night  she  came  back 
to  me.  He  had  cast  her  from  him.  She  lay  dead 
at  my  feet."  His  voice  shook.  "In  vain  I  sought 
justice.  There  is  no  justice  for  such  things  among 
the  White  People- — not  for  themselves  and  not  for 
us.  I  drew  my  sword  and  in  hatred  and  scorn  as 
deep  as  my  love  and  reverence  had  been  high,  I 
slew  my  way  to  the  false  devil  who  had  betrayed 
me.  Him  I  slew — and  his  pale  wife  I — " 

"Who  was  this  man?"  Nehal  Singh  asked  heavily. 

"I  know  not.  His  name  has  passed  from  me.  But 
the  hate  remains.  For  with  that  act  of  treach- 
ery he  drew  back  the  veil  from  my  blind  eyes,  and 
I  saw  that  they  were  all  as  he — bad,  cruel,  hypo- 
crites—" 

"Not  all— not  all !"  Nehal  Singh  interrupted.  He 
stopped  by  the  splashing  fountain  and  gazed  dream- 
ily into  the  clear  waters.  His  own  face  he  saw 
there — and  another  which  was  neither  bad,  cruel, 
nor  hypocritical,  but  wholly  beautiful.  "Not  all," 
he  repeated.  "You  judge  by  one  man.  There  are 
others,  and  it  is  those  I  will  see  and  know,  and — " 

"I  would  rather  see  thee  dead  at  my  feet!" 

"My  father,  I  will  judge  them  as  I  find  them," 


BREAKING  THE  BARRIER  79 

Nehal  Singh  went  on  imperturbably.  "If  they  be 
good  and  noble,  I  will  serve  and  love  them.  If 
they  be  bad,  as  thou  sayest — then  thou  shalt  live  to 
see  me  do  thy  will." 

He  heard  a  shrill  cry,  and  his  eyes,  still  fixed  on 
the  water,  saw  a  hand  that  swept  upward,  the  flash 
of  steel  falling  swiftly  through  the  sunshine.  He 
swung  round  and  tore  the  dagger  from  the  nerve- 
less hand. 

"Thou  dost  wrong,  my  father,"  he  said,  with  un- 
shaken calm.  "To  learn  treachery  from  treachery 
is  a  poor  lesson.  And  thou  canst  not  stay  me. 
What  I  will  do  I  will  do.  Do  not  cross  me  again." 

The  old  man,  who  had  shrunk  back,  gasping  and 
staring,  against  the  marble  basin,  pulled  himself 
painfully  upright. 

"Ay,  I  did  wrong,"  he  said.  "With  my  old  hands 
I  tried  to  forestall  the  sword  of  Fate.  For,  mark 
me,  the  hour  will  come  when  thou  wilt  curse  thy- 
self that  thou  didst  stay  my  knife !" 

He  tottered  slowly  away,  vanishing  like  a  curious 
twisted  shadow  amidst  the  deeper  shadows  of  the 
columns. 

Nehal  Singh  watched  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight, 
and  then,  snapping  the  dagger  across  his  knee,  flung 
the  pieces  into  the  water.  They  lay  there,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  marble  basin,  sparkling  and  twinkling 
in  the  sunshine.  When  he  looked  in,  trying  to  con- 
jure up  once  more  the  beautiful  face,  it  was  always 
the  dagger  he  saw.  It  was  always  the  dagger  he 
saw  when  the  memory  of  that  short,  violent  scene 
came  back  to  him — and  it  came  back  often,  spring- 
ing up  out  of  his  subconscious  self  like  an  evil, 


80  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

slinking  shade  that  could  never  be  wholly  brought 
to  rest.  Yet  he  went  on  resolutely.  One  barrier 
had  given  way — one  more  remained,  and  he  flung 
himself  against  it  with  a  reckless  determination 
which  would  have  overcome  any  resistance.  But 
there  was  none.  The  old  priest  who  had  been  his 
guide  and  teacher  welcomed  him  as  he  had  always 
done,  seated  cross-legged  at  the  edge  of  the  Sacred 
Tank,  motionless,  rigid,  like  some  handsome  bronze 
statue  of  Buddha,  whose  eyes  alone  spoke  of  a  fierce 
flowing  life  within.  He  bowed  his  head  once  in  re- 
turn to  Nehal's  greeting,  but  as  he  began  to  speak 
he  interrupted  him,  and  in  a  low,  chanting  voice 
uttered  the  last  words  he  was  ever  heard  to  address 
to  any  living  creature: 

"Speak  not  to  me,  Son  of  the  Night  and  Day,  for 
the  Spirit  of  the  Holy  Yog  is  on  me,  and  his  tongue 
speaketh  through  my  lips.  Behold,  mine  eyes  see 
with  his  into  the  wells  of  the  future — my  heart 
stands  still  for  fear  of  the  things  that  are  to  be.  I 
see  a  Holy  Temple  and  hear  the  ring  of  Accursed 
Footsteps.  I  see  a  young  man  at  daybreak,  beauti- 
ful, strong  and  upright,  and  I  see  him  stand  be- 
neath the  high  sun  like  a  blade  of  withered  grass. 
I  see  him  go  forth  in  the  morning  with  laughter 
on  his  lips,  and  at  nightfall  his  eyes  run  blood.  A 
voice  calleth  him  from  the  thicket,  and  wheresoever 
the  voice  calleth  him  he  goeth.  He  standeth  on 
the  banks  of  Holy  Ganges,  and  behold !  the  waters 
burst  from  their  course  and  pour  westward  to  the 
ocean.  Behold,  then  shall  he  draw  his  sword 
against  his  people,  and  from  that  hour  he  shall  serve 
them  and  become  theirs.  Then  shall  the  doors  of 


BREAKING  THE  BARRIER  81 

the  temple  be  closed  for  ever,  and  the  lips  of 
Vishnu  silent.  Go  forth,  son  of  the  Evening  and 
Morning  Star !  That  which  is  to  be  shall  be  till  the 
stream  of  the  Future  ceaseth  to  flow  from  the 
mouth  of  Heaven!" 

1  Nehal  Singh  listened  to  this  strange,  disjointed 
prophecy  in  perfect  silence,  his  eyes  following  the 
fierce  stare  of  the  old  Brahman  into  the  oily  waters 
of  the  Sacred  Pool.  Amidst  the  hundred  reflections 
from  the  temple  he  seemed  to  see  each  separate 
picture  as  the  monotonous  voice  called  it  up  before 
his  mind,  and  always  it  was  his  own  face  which 
shimmered  among  the  shadowy  minarets,  and  al- 
ways it  was  a  familiar  voice  calling  him  through 
the  ages  which  whispered  to  him  from  the  trembling 
leaves  of  the  Bo-Tree  as  it  hung  its  branches  down 
to  the  water's  edge. 

"Tell  me  more,  for  thy  words  have  drawn  the 
veil  closer  about  the  future!" 

His  pleading  received  no  response.  The  priest 
remained  motionless,  passive,  indifferent,  seeming- 
ly plunged  in  an  ecstatic  comtemplation;  and  from 
that  moment  his  lips  were  closed,  and  he  passed  his 
once  loved  pupil  with  eyes  that  seemed  fixed  far 
ahead  on  a  world  visible  only  to  himself.  Neither 
in  his  words  or  manner  had  there  been  any  anger 
or  reproach,  but  a  perfect  resignation  which  walled 
him  off  from  every  human  emotion,  and  Nehal 
Singh  went  his  way,  conscious  that  the  world  lay 
before  him  and  that  he  was  free.  The  great  divid- 
ing wall  had  turned  to  air,  and  he  had  passed 
through,  satisfied  but  not  a  little  troubled,  as  a  man 
is  who  finds  that  he  has  struck  at  shadows. 


82  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

Afterward  he  told  himself  that  the  walls  had  al- 
ways been  shadows,  the  links  that  bound  him  al- 
ways mere  ghostly  hindrances,  part  of  the  vague 
dreams  that  had  filled  his  life  and  bound  his  hori- 
zon. Now  that  was  all  over.  The  more  perfect 
reality  lay  before  him  and  was  his.  The  dim  fig- 
ures of  his  childhood's  imagination  gave  place  to 
definite  forms.  And  each  bore  the  same  face,  each 
face  the  same  grave  goodness — that  of  the  woman 
destined  for  him  by  Heaven. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    SECOND    GENERATION 

THUS  it  came  to  pass  that  after  more  than  a 
quarter  of  a  century  the  gates  of  the  palace  were 
thrown  open,  and  strange  feet  crossed  the  thresh- 
old in  apparent  peace  and  friendship. 

A  crowd  of  memories  flooded  Colonel  Carmi- 
chael's  mind  as  he  followed  the  guide  along  the 
narrow  paths.  There  was  a  difference  between  his 
last  entry  and  this — a  difference  and  an  analogy 
whose  bizarre  completeness  came  home  to  him 
more  vividly  with  every  moment.  Then,  too,  he 
had  been  led,  but  by  a  dark  figure  whose  flaming 
torch  had  sprung  through  the  darkness  like  an  un- 
earthly spirit  of  destruction.  Then,  too,  he  had  fol- 
lowed— not,  as  now,  old  and  saddened — but  im- 
petuously, and  behind  him  had  raced  no  crowd  of 
laughing  pleasure-seekers,  but  men  whose  bloody 
swords  were  clasped  in  hands  greedy  for  the  long- 
deferred  vengeance.  He  remembered  clearly  what 
they  had  felt.  For  a  year  they  had  been  held  at 
bay  by  a  skill  and  cunning  which  outmatched  their 
most  heroic  efforts,  and  now,  at  last,  the  hour  of 
victory  was  theirs.  He  remembered  how  the  thirst 
for  revenge  had  died  down  as  they  stormed  the 
marble  steps.  No  living  being  barred  their  course. 
Stillness  greeted  them  as  they  poured  into  the 

83 


84  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

mighty  hall,  and  a  chilly  awe  sank  down  upon  their 
red-hot  rage  as  they  searched  an  emptiness  which 
seemed  to  defy  them.  It  was  the  Colonel  himself, 
then  only  a  young  captain,  who  had  heard  the  pit- 
eous wailing  cry  issuing  from  a  side  apartment.  He 
had  rushed  in,  and  there  a  sight  greeted  him  which 
engraved  itself  on  his  memory  for  ever.  The  place 
was  almost  in  darkness,  save  that  at  the  far  end 
two  torches  had  been  lit  on  either  side  of  what 
seemed  to  be  a  throne — a  beautiful  golden  chair 
raised  from  the  floor  by  ivory  steps.  Here,  too,  at 
first  all  had  seemed  death  and  silence ;  then  the  cry 
had  been  repeated,  and  they  saw  that  a  tiny  child 
lay  between  the  high  carved  arms  and  was  watching 
them  with  great,  beautiful  eyes.  Around  his  neck 
had  hung  a  hastily-written  message : 

"This  is  my  son,  Nehal  Singh,  whose  life  and 
heritage  I  intrust  to  my  conquerors  in  the  name  of 
justice  and  mercy." 

And  he  had  taken  the  boy  in  his  arms  and  borne 
him  thence  as  tenderly  as  if  he  had  been  his  own. 

Since  then  twenty-five  years  had  passed.  The 
throne  had  been  given  to  the  tiny  heir  under  the 
tutelage  of  a  neighboring  prince,  and  the  spirit  of 
forgotten  things  brooded  over  the  wreck  of  the  tem- 
pest that  for  over  a  year  had  raged  about  Marut. 
But  the  Colonel  remembered  as  if  it  had  been  but 
yesterday.  Others  had  forgotten  the  little  child, 
but,  perhaps  because  he  had  no  children  of  his  own, 
the  memory  of  the  dark  baby  eyes  had  never  been 
banished  from  his  mind.  He  caught  himself  won- 
dering, not  without  a  touch  of  emotion,  what  sort 
of  man  had  grown  out  of  the  minute  being  he  had 


85 

rescued;  but  curiously  enough — and  typically 
enough  of  the  contrariness  of  human  sympathy — 
from  the  moment  he  caught  sight  of  the  tall  figure 
advancing  to  meet  him  from  the  steps  of  the  pal- 
ace, all  kindly,  gentle  feelings  died  out  of  him,  and 
his  old  prejudice  of  race  awoke.  Possibly — nay, 
certainly — the  child  had  had  less  need  of  sympathy 
than  the  man,  but  the  Colonel's  heart  froze  toward 
him,  and  his  formal  response  to  his  host's  greeting 
was  icy  with  the  unconquerable  consciousness  of 
the  gulf  between  them. 

Yet,  for  eyes  unblinded  by  preconceived  aver- 
sion, Nehal  Singh  was  at  that  moment  good  to  look 
upon.  He  was  simply  dressed  in  white,  with  no 
jewels  save  for  a  great  diamond  in  his  turban,  and 
this  very  simplicity  threw  into  strong  relief  his  un- 
usually well-built  figure  and  the  features  to  whose 
almost  classical  perfection  was  added  a  strength,  a 
force  of  intellect  which  classical  beauty  is  too  often 
denied.  Quietly  and  modestly,  conscious  of  his 
own  worth,  ignorant  and  inexperienced  of  the  world, 
he  was  utterly  unaware  of  the  stone  barrier  that 
his  guests  presented  to  his  own  open-hearted  wel- 
come. For  him  the  whole  of  his  past  life  concen- 
trated itself  on  this  moment  when  the  gates  of  the 
Universe  rolled  back,  and  he  advanced  to  meet  the 
representatives  of  its  Greatest  People.  He  thought, 
in  the  simple,  natural  egoism  of  a  man  who  has 
lived  a  life  cut  off  from  others,  that  they  would 
understand  this  and  feel  with  him. 

What  his  own  feelings  were  he  hardly  knew— «• 
perhaps  among  them,  though  unrecognized,  was 
the  faintest  chill  of  disappointment.  He  had  had 


86  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

no  definite  expectations,  but  his  imagination  had 
unconsciously  been  at  work,  and  touched  with  its 
illuminating  fire  the  sons  of  the  heroes  whose  deeds 
had  filled  his  quiet  existence  with  romance,  paint- 
ing his  picture  of  them  with  colors  which  the 
reality  did  not  justify.  Certainly  the  little  Colonel 
had  nothing  either  romantic  or  heroic  in  his  ap- 
pearance, and  what  was  good  and  kindly  in  his 
bronzed  face  was  hidden  behind  the  mask  of  his 
racial  pride. 

His  first  words  were  delivered  in  a  harsh  voice, 
which  betrayed  only  too  clearly  his  real  feelings, 
though  Nehal  Singh  recognized  nothing  but  its  dis- 
agreeableness. 

"Rajah  Sahib,  you  have  honored  us  with  the  wish 
to  become  acquainted  with  the  English  people  dwell- 
ing in  your  State,"  he  began,  "and  it  is  therefore  my 
pleasure  and  duty  to  present  to  you  the  officers  of  the 
regiments — "  He  stumbled  awkwardly,  the  strange- 
ness of  the  situation,  the  direct  and  searching  gaze  of 
his  host,  throwing  him  completely  out  of  whatever 
oratory  powers  he  possessed.  It  was  Nehal  Singh  him- 
self who  saved  the  situation. 

"It  is  my  pleasure  to  receive  you,"  he  said,  in 
his  slow,  painstaking  English,  "and  I  am  honored 
by  the  readiness  with  which  you  have  complied 
with  my  desire  to  meet  the  Great  People  to  whom 
my  land  owes  so  much.  Though  hitherto  I  have 
lived  apart  from  them,  I  am  not  wholly  ignorant 
of  their  greatness.  I  know,  for  my  fathers  and  my 
books  have  shown  me,  that  there  is  no  other  nation 
so  powerful  nor  whose  sons  are  so  noble.  Therefore 
I  welcome  you  with  all  my  heart  as  a  brother,  and  if 


THE  SECOND  GENERATION  87  ' 

such  entertainment  as  I  have  tried  to  prepare  for  your 
pleasure  is  not  to  your  taste,  I  pray  you  to  forgive 
me,  for  therein  am  I  indeed  ignorant." 

For  a  few  among  the  English  party  his  words, 
spoken  slowly  and  with  a  simple  sincerity,  were 
not  without  their  charm.  Yet,  little  as  he  knew  it, 
he  had  succeeded  in  one  short  speech  in  touching 
two  dangerous  spots  in  his  relationship  to  his 
guests — his  ancestry  and  his  equality.  But  here 
again  his  ignorance  veiled  from  him  what  was  writ- 
ten clearly  enough  on  a  dozen  frozen  faces. 

"I  should  be  glad  to  be  made  personally  ac- 
quainted with  each  of  your  officers,"  he  went  on. 
"For  men  who  serve  under  one  flag  should  know 
each  other  well." 

Colonel  Carmichael  obeyed,  thankful  for  any  oc- 
cupation which  saved  him  the  necessity  of  replying; 
and  one  by  one  the  solemn,  unmoved  faces  came 
under  Nehal  Singh's  eager  gaze,  bowed,  and  passed 
on.  Each  resented  in  turn  the  intense  scrutiny  of 
their  host,  and  none  guessed  its  cause.  For  them 
it  was  the  insolent  stare  of  a  colored  man  who  had  ven- 
tured to  place  himself  on  an  equality  with  themselves. 
They  could  not  have  known  that  he  was  seeking  fa- 
miliar features,  nor  that,  as  one  after  another  passed  on, 
a  cold  chill  of  disappointment  was  settling  on  a  heart 
warm  with  preconceived  admiration  and  respect.  They 
could  not  have  known  that  his  unconscious  presumption 
had  hidden  a  real  desire  to  find  among  them  the  hero 
to  whom  his  man's  worship  of  courage  and  greatness 
could  have  been  dedicated.  He  was  too  young — 
and  especially  too  young  in  worldly  wisdom — to 
realize  that  the  outside  man  is  not  of  necessity  the 


88  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

man  himself.  He  merely,  felt,  as  each  wooden  face 
confronted  his  own,  that  here  was  surely  no  Great 
Man,  no  Hero.  Only  when  it  came  to  the  civilians 
his  eyes  rested  with  some  degree  of  satisfaction  on 
Travers'  well-knit  figure  and  fresh-colored  face.  For 
the  first  time  during  the  whole  proceedings  the  prince 
smiled,  and  in  turn  received  a  smile. 

The  ladies  had  by  this  time  arrived,  and  the 
presentations  continued.  There  was  no  change  in 
Nehal  Singh's  demeanor  when  he  stood  before  Beatrice 
Gary — no  change,  at  least,  visible  to  the  curious  eyes 
that  watched.  If  there  was  any  hidden  meaning  in 
his  expression  during  the  brief  instant  that  they  looked 
at  each  other,  only  she  herself  could  have  read  it ;  and 
this  she  apparently  did  not  do,  for  her  face  retained  its 
Madonna  peace  and  dignity. 

"I  think  Rajah  Sahib  and  Miss  Gary  have  already 
met?"  remarked  Travers,  who  was  acting  as  master 
of  the  ceremonies. 

"Yes,  we  have  met,"  Nehal  Singh  answered,  and 
passed  on. 

If  any  hesitation  showed  itself  in  his  manner,  it 
was  before  Lois  Caruthers.  A  swift  shade  of  puz- 
zled surprise  clouded  his  features. 

"You  have  been  a  long  time  in  India?"  he  asked, 
after  the  first  words  of  introduction.  The  question 
sounded  as  though  he  merely  sought  her  affirma- 
tion to  something  he  already  knew. 

"Almost  all  my  life,  Rajah  Sahib,"  she  answered. 
Possibly  it  was  a  natural  shyness  which  made  her 
voice  sound  troubled  and  nervous.  She  seemed 
to  heave  a  sigh  of  relief  when  he  once  more  moved 
on.  Yet  he  had  impressed  her  agreeably. 


THE  SECOND  GENERATION  89 

"Is  he  not  handsome?"  she  said  in  an  undertone 
to  her  companion,  Stafford.  "I  think  he  is  quite 
the  handsomest  man  I  have  seen,  and  he  has  the 
manners  of  an  Englishman.  I  wonder  where  he 
got  them  from." 

"I  don't  know,"  Stafford  returned.  "These  people 
have  a  wonderful  trick  of  picking  up  things.  At 
any  rate  he  realizes  Miss  Gary's  curious  description — 
beautiful ;  though,  with  Miss  Berry,  I  do  not  care  for 
the  word  as  applied  to  a  man.  He  seems  a  nice  sort 
of  fellow,  too,  quiet  and  unaffected,  and  that  is  more 
to  me  than  his  good  looks.  It's  rather  a  pity." 

"What  is  a  pity?"  she  asked,  surprised. 

"Oh,  well,  that  he  is  what  he  is.  Don't  look  so 
pained.  It's  not  only  my  'narrow-hearted  preju- 
dice,' as  you  call  it.  It's  more  than  that.  I'm  sorry 
for  the  man  himself.  It  all  confirms  my  first  opinion 
that  it  is  rather  bad  luck." 

"Why?"  she  demanded  obstinately. 

"Don't  you  understand?  If  you  had  seen  Webb's 
face  when  he  talked  about  'as  a  brother  a  brother,' 
you  would  have  understood  well  enough.  He  has 
been  made  a  fool  of,  and  sooner  or  later  he  will 
have  his  eyes  roughly  opened.  As  I  say,  it  seems 
bad  luck." 

"You  mean  he  would  have  done  better  to  keep' 
to  his  old  seclusion?"  she  said  thoughtfully. 

"That's  about  it."  He  smiled  down  at  her,  and 
they  suddenly  forgot  the  Rajah  in  that  curious  hap- 
piness of  two  beings  who  need  no  words  to  tell 
them  that  each  is  understood  by  the  other,  and 
that  a  secret  current  of  thought  and  feeling  flows 
beneath  every  word  and  touch.  "Come,"  he  went 


90  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

on.  "It  seems  that  we  are  to  have  the  run  of  the 
place.  Shall  we  explore?" 

She  nodded  a  quick  agreement,  and  they  started 
off,  thus  following  the  example  of  others  of  the 
party  who  had  already  made  use  of  the  Rajah's 
suggestion  that  they  should  visit  the  chief  and 
most  interesting  portions  of  the  palace.  Nehal 
Singh  himself  stood  alone,  and  thankful  for  his 
loneliness.  For  the  last  ten  minutes  Colonel  Car- 
michael  and  he  had  stood  side  by  side,  and  found 
no  word  to  say  to  each  other.  The  past,  which 
might  have  been  a  link,  proved  itself  a  barrier  which 
neither  could  scale,  and  presently,  on  some  excuse, 
the  Colonel  had  hurried  off  to  join  his  wife.  As 
though  guided  by  a  sure  instinct,  Nehal  Singh 
turned  in  the  direction  where  Beatrice  was  stand- 
ing with  her  mother  and  Travers.  Without  hesi- 
tation he  went  up  to  her. 

"I  have  waited  to  be  your  guide,"  he  said.  His 
words  sounded  amusingly  decided  and  matter-of- 
course,  and  a  smile  of  not  very  sympathetic  mean- 
ing passed  over  the  faces  of  those  within  earshot. 

"You  can  be  sure  she  went  a  lot  further  than  she 
cared  to  say,"  Mrs.  Berry  whispered  to  her  daugh- 
ter. "You  can  see  how  everything  was  made  up 
beforehand.  I  wonder  what  she  expects  to  get  out 
of  him?" 

Though  the  remark  did  not  reach  her,  Beatrice's 
instinct  and  bitter  experience  supplied  her  with  a 
sure  key  to  the  look  that  was  exchanged  between 
the  two  women.  She  smiled  gaily. 

"I  shall  be  only  too  pleased,"  she  said.  "What 
I  have  seen  has  made  me  thirst  for  more." 


THE  SECOND  GENERATION  91 

"Indeed,  Your  Highness,"  Mrs.  Gary  broke  in 
eagerly.  "I  must  not  forget  to  thank  you  for  the 
really  very  kind  assistance  you  lent  my  reckless 
daughter  the  other  day.  I  do  not  know  what  would 
have  happened  to  her  if  it  had  not  been  for  you !" 

Nehal  Singh  looked  at  her  with  a  grave  wonder. 

"You  are  her  mother — ?"  he  said,  and  then 
stopped  short.  The  wonder  was  reflected  so  clearly 
in  his  tone  that  an  angry  flush  mounted  to  Mrs. 
Gary's  fat  cheeks. 

"I  have  that  honor,  Your  Highness,"  she  said  acidly. 

"Mrs.  Gary !"  Travers  called  from  the  flower-bed 
over  which  he  was  leaning.  "If  the  Rajah  Sahib 
can  spare  you,  do  come  and  look  at  these  flowers.  They 
are  extraordinary." 

With  her  head  in  the  air,  her  plumes  waving,  a 
picture  of  ruffled  dignity,  Mrs.  Gary  swayed  her 
way  in  the  direction  indicated,  and  Nehal  Singh 
and  Beatrice  found  themselves  alone. 

"Will  you  come  with  me  now?"  he  asked.  "I 
have  still  so  much  to  show  you." 

She  saw  the  look  of  self-satisfied  "I-told-you-so" 
horror  written  on  the  faces  of  Mrs.  Berry  and  her 
friends,  who  stood  a  little  farther  off  whispering 
and  nodding,  and  if  she  had  felt  the  slightest  hesi- 
tation, she  hesitated  no  longer. 

""Lead  the  way,  Rajah  Sahib,"  she  said  coolly.  "I 
follow." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   IDEAL 

ON  either  side  of  them  tall  palm-trees  raised 
their  splendid  heads  high  above  the  shrubs  and 
sweet-smelling  plants  that  clustered  like  a  protect- 
ing wall  about  their  feet,  and  as  Beatrice  and  her 
companion  passed  a  sharp  bend  it  seemed  as  though 
they  had  been  suddenly  cut  off  from  the  chattering 
crowd  behind  them  and  had  entered  into  a  wonder- 
ful, silent  world  in  which  they  were  alone. 

Was  it  the  beauty  of  her  surroundings,  or  was 
it  the  man  beside  her,  which  sent  the  curious,  al- 
most painful  emotion  through  her  angry  heart?  For 
she  was  angry — angry  with  her  mother,  with  herself 
and  him — chiefly  with  him.  He  had  been  too  sure. 
And  yet  she  was  flattered.  Also,  it  was  a  pleasure  for 
the  first  time  to  be  with  some  one  with  whom  she  could 
drop  her  weapons  and  have  no  fear.  She  looked  up  at 
him,  and  found  that  he  was  watching  her. 

"It  was  not  good-by  for  ever,"  he  said.  "We  have 
met  again." 

Her  anger  suddenly  subsided.  His  slow  English, 
with  its  foreign  accent,  his  dark  features  and  native 
dress  reminded  her  vividly  that  he  was  of  another 
(implied,  inferior)  race,  and  therefore  not  to  be 
judged  by  ordinary  standards.  She  gave  herself 
up  to  the  pleasure  of  the  moment. 

92 


THE  IDEAL  93 

"You  have  overthrown  destiny,"  she  said,  smiling. 
"You  have  made  the  impossible  possible.  How  was 
I  to  know  all  that  when  I  prophesied  we  should 
not  meet  again?" 

"I  have  not  overthrown  destiny,"  he  answered. 
"I  have  fulfilled  it." 

"Are  you  sure  of  that?" 

"Quite  sure." 

She  looked  away  from  him  up  to  the  golden  dome 
of  the  temple  which  rose  before  them  against  the 
unclouded  sky.  Because  she  had  thrown  down  her 
weapons,  and  in  the  irresponsible  pleasure  of  the 
moment  become  herself,  she  acquired  a  power  of 
penetration  and  understanding  which  is  denied  to 
those  who  with  their  own  hearts  closed  seek  to 
know  the  hearts  of  others. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said  suddenly,  "when  Colonel 
Carmichael  presented  himself  to  you,  and  all  the 
others,  I  watched  you,  and  I  rather  fancy  I  read 
something  on  your  face  which  you  didn't  want  to 
show.  I  wonder  if  I  am  right." 

"It  is  possible,"  he  answered  gravely.  "In  this 
last  hour  I  have  already  begun  to  regret  that  I  have 
never  studied  to  control  my  emotions.  I  show  when 
I  am  surprised,  disappointed,  or — startled.  Hither- 
to, there  has  been  no  reason  why  I  should  not  do 
so.  But  now  that  I  am  among  my  equals,  it  is  differ- 
ent." 

She  bit  her  lip,  not  in  anger  but  in  an  almost 
pained  surprise  at  this  man's  ignorance  of  the  world 
into  which  he  was  entering.  He  was  not  presum- 
ing to  place  himself  on  the  level  with  the  English- 
man; it  seemed  as  if  he  were  inoffensively  lifting 


94  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

the  Englishman  up  to  himself.  She  was  sorry  for 
him  as  one  is  sorry  for  all  kindly  fools. 

"Tell  me  what  you  read !"  he  begged,  after  a 
moment.  "Perhaps  you  will  know  better  than  I 
myself.  I  am  almost  sure  you  will." 

"I  read  disappointment,"  she  answered.  "Was 
that  so?" 

His  brows  contracted  slightly. 

"I  -was  disappointed,"  he  admitted,  "but  that  was 
my  own  fault.  I  had  never  met  English  people — 
only  heard  of  them.  What  I  had  heard  made  me 
imagine  things  which  it  seems  have  no  reality." 

"Did  you  expect  demigods  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  do  not  know  what  I  expected — but  it  was 
something  different.  You  know  the  men  I  have 
met  to-day.  Are  they  all  great-hearted  and  brave  ?" 

She  did  not  laugh  at  the  question,  though  there 
was  cause  enough  to  have  excused  it. 

"I  can  not  tell  you,"  she  answered.  "Only  cir- 
cumstances can  bring  such  virtues  to  light,  and 
hitherto  the  circumstances  have  been  lacking.  All 
men  do  not  wear  their  heart  on  their  sleeve,"  she 
answered,  not  without  malice. 

He  no.dded. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  for  no  doubt  you 
are  right.  I  am  very  ignorant,  I  fear,  and  was 
foolish  enough  to  expect  heroes  to  have  the  face 
and  figure  of  heroes.  It  grieved  me  for  a  moment 
to  find  that  I  was  the  tallest  and  best-looking 
among  them.  Now  that  you  have  explained,  I  see  that 
the  greatness  lies  beneath." 

This  time  she  laughed,  and  laughed  so  heartily 
that  he  joined  in  with  her,  though  he  did  not  know 


THE  IDEAL  95 

what  had  caused  her  amusement.  He  took  pleasure 
in  watching  her  when  she  laughed.  Her  statuesque 
beauty  yielded  then  to  a  warm,  pulsating  life,  which 
transformed  her  and  made  her  seem  to  him  more 
human,  more  attainable.  For  he  had  never  shaken 
off  the  belief  that  she  and  a  divine  agency  were  closely 
linked  together. 

"You  must  not  compare  yourself  with  English- 
men," she  said,  when  she  had  recovered,  "neither 
in  face,  nor  stature,  nor  ideals.  You  must  always 
remember  that  we  are  of  another  race." 

"And  yet  you  fulfilled  my  highest  ideal." 

"Perhaps  I  am  the  exception,"  she  retorted,  dan- 
gerously near  another  outburst.  "Did  all  the 
women  this  afternoon  fulfil  your  ideal?" 

"No!"  very  decidedly. 

"There !  You  see,  then,  that  I  am  the  exception. 
Besides,  I  am  not  a  man.  Men  require  to  be  differ- 
ently judged,  and  we  have  perhaps  other  ideals." 

"That  also  is  possible,"  he  assented,  "and  I  know 
that,  because  the  English  are  such  a  great  people, 
their  ideals  must  be  very  high,  perhaps  higher  than 
mine.  Since  I  am  now  to  go  among  them,  I  wish  to 
know  what  they  consider  necessary  in  the  character 
of  a  great  man." 

"That  is  too  hard  a  question,"  she  said  hurriedly. 
"I  can  not  describe  the  national  ideal  to  you,  be- 
cause I  am  too  ignorant  and  have  never  thought 
about  it.  You  must  ask  some  one  else." 

They  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  path  and  stood 
before  a  square  opening,  on  the  other  side  of  which 
the  two  massive  gorpuras  of  the  temple  rose  in 
their  monumental  splendor  two  hundred  feet  above 


96  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

them.  They  were  still  alone.  None  of  the  sight- 
seers seemed  to  have  found  the  sacred  spot,  and  for 
a  moment  she  stood  still,  awed  in  spite  of  herself. 

"I  should  be  quite  content  with  your  ideal,"  he 
said  gently,  breaking  in  upon  her  admiration.  "I 
feel  that  it  will  be  the  highest." 

"You  ask  of  me  more  than  I  can  answer." 

"I  beg  of  you !"  he  pleaded  earnestly.  "I  have 
my  reasons." 

Again  she  bit  her  lip.  It  was  too  absurd,  too 
ridiculous!  That  she,  of  all  people,  who  had  seen 
into  the  darkest,  most  sordid  depths  of  the  human 
character,  and  long  since  learned  to  look  upon  good- 
ness and  virtue  as  exploded  myths,  should  be  set 
to  work  to  draw  up  an  ideal  which  she  did  not  and 
could  not  believe  in,  seemed  a  mockery  too  pitiful 
for  laughter.  Yet  something — perhaps  it  was  a 
form  of  national  pride — stung  her  to  the  task,  more- 
over stung  her  to  do  her  best  and  place  beyond  the 
reach  of  these  dark  hands  a  high  and  splendid  fig- 
ure of  English  ideals. 

To  help  herself,  she  sought  through  the  lumber- 
rooms  of  her  memory,  and  drew  thence  a  hundred 
ideas,  thoughts  and  conceptions  which  had  be- 
longed to  a  short — terribly  short — childhood.  Like 
a  middle-aged  woman  who  comes  suddenly  upon 
a  hoard  of  long  since  forgotten  toys,  and  feels  an 
emotion  half  pitying,  half  regretful,  so  Beatrice 
Gary  displayed  to  her  companion  things  that  for 
years  had  lain  forsaken  and  neglected  in  the  back- 
ground of  her  mind.  The  dust  lay  thick  upon  them 
— and  yet  they  were  well  enough.  They  would 
have  been  beautiful,  had  she  believed  in  them,  but, 


THE  IDEAL  97 

like  the  toys,  they  had  lost  the  glamour  and  il- 
lusionary  light  in  which  her  youth  and  imagination 
had  bathed  them. 

"Our  highest  ideal  of  a  man  we  call  a  gentleman," 
she  said  slowly.  "It  is  a  much-abused  term,  but  it 
can  mean  a  very  great  deal.  What  his  appearance 
is  does  not  so  much  matter — indeed,  when  one  looks 
into  it,  it  does  not  matter  at  all,  save  that  you  will 
find  that  the  ugliest  face  can  often  give  you  an 
index  to  a  lovely  character.  The  chief  thing  that 
we  require  of  him  is  that  he  should  be  above  all 
meanness  and  pettiness.  He  must  be  great-think- 
ing and  great-feeling  for  himself  and  others,  es- 
pecially for  others.  You  will  find  that  a  good  man 
is  always  thinking  or  working  for  those  others 
whose  names  he  may  not  even  know.  Whatever 
power  or  talent  he  has — however  little  it  may  be — 
he  concentrates  on  some  object  which  may  help 
them.  It  is  the  same  with  his  virtues.  He  culti- 
vates them  because  he  knows  that  there  is  not  a 
high  thought,  or  generous  impulse,  or  noble  deed 
which  does  not  help  to  lift  the  standard  of  the  whole 
world." 

"Of  what  virtues  are  you  speaking?"  Nehal  Singh 
interposed. 

"Oh,  the  usual  things,"  she  returned,  with  a  note 
of  cynicism  breaking  through  her  sham  enthusi- 
asm. "Honesty,  purity,  generosity,  loyalty — es- 
pecially loyalty.  I  do  not  think  a  man  who  is  true 
to  himself,  to  his  word,  to  his  friend,  and  to  his 
country  can  ever  fall  far  below  the  ideal."  She  took  a 
deep  breath.  "It  is  a  very  poor  description  that  I  have 
given  you.  I  hope  you  have  understood?" 


98  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"Yes,  I  have  understood,"  he  answered.  "And 
this  man — this  gentleman — can  be  of  all  nations?" 

So  deeply  ingrained  is  national  prejudice,  even  in 
those  who  profess  to  regard  the  whole  world  with 
an  equally  contemptuous  eye,  that  for  an  instant 
she  hesitated. 

"Of  course,"  she  said  then.  "Nationality  makes 
no  difference." 

They  crossed  over  the  broad  square,  through  the 
gopura,  into  the  inner  temple.  Nehal  Singh,  who 
had  sunk  into  a  deep  meditation,  roused  himself 
and  called  to  her  notice  many  curious  and  beauti- 
ful things  which  she  would  otherwise  have  passed 
by  without  interest.  Whether  it  was  his  loving  de- 
scription, or  whether  it  was  because  she  was  calmer, 
she  could  not  say,  but  the  place  impressed  her  with 
its  stately  magnificence  as  it  had  not  done  before. 

"The  ages  seem  to  hang  like  ghosts  in  the  atmos- 
phere," she  told  her  companion,  in  a  hushed  under- 
tone. 

He  assented,  and  the  dreamer's  look  which  had 
haunted  his  eyes  for  twenty-five  years  crept  back 
into  its  place. 

"Who  knows  what  unseen  world  surrounds  us?" 
he  said  quietly. 

They  had  already  left  the  first  court  behind  them 
and  passed  the  Sacred  Pool,  a  placid,  untroubled 
mirror  for  the  overhanging  trees  and  towering  min- 
arets. There  they  had  paused  a  moment,  watching 
their  own  reflections  which  the  warm  evening  sun- 
shine cast  on  to  the  smooth  surface.  Then  they 
had  moved  on,  and  now  stood  before  the  entrance 
of  the  Holy  of  Holies.  Beatrice  drew  back  with  a 


THE  IDEAL  99 

gesture  of  alarm.  A  tall,  white-clad  figure  had 
suddenly  stepped  out  of  the  shadowy  portal  and 
stood  erect  and  threatening,  one  hand  raised  as 
though  to  forbid  their  entrance.  Long  afterward, 
Beatrice  remembered  the  withered  face,  and  always 
with  a  shudder  of  unreasonable  terror. 

"Do  not  be  afraid,"  Nehal  Singh  said.  "He  de- 
fends the  entrance  against  strangers.  He  will  let 
you  pass." 

He  went  up  to  the  old  priest  and  spoke  a  few 
words  in  Hindustani,  which  Beatrice  did  not  under- 
stand. Immediately  the  Brahman  stood  aside,  and 
though  his  stern,  piercing  gaze  never  left  her  face, 
she  felt  that  by  some  means  or  other  his  animosity 
had  been  disarmed. 

"What  did  you  say  to  him?"  she  asked. 

Nehal  Singh  shook  his  head. 

"One  day  I  will  tell  you,"  he  answered ;  and  some 
instinct  made  her  hesitate  to  press  the  question 
further. 

Thus  they  stood  once  more  before  the  great  gold- 
en statue,  this  time  side  by  side.  The  sanctuary 
was  built  in  the  shape  of  a  half-circle,  the  high, 
vaulted  roof  supported  by  slender  pillars  of  carved 
black  marble.  There  was  no  other  attempt  at  orna- 
mentation. The  three-headed  figure  of  the  god 
reigned  in  the  center  from  a  massive  altar  in  soli- 
tary splendor,  and  from  a  small  opening  overhead 
a  frail  ray  of  evening  light  mingled  its  pale  yellow 
with  the  brilliant  crimson  flame  of  the  Sacred  Lamp 
which  burnt  before  the  idol,  casting  an  almost  un- 
earthly reflection  about  the  passionless  chiseled  fea- 
tures. In  spite  of  herself,  Beatrice  felt  that  the 


ioo  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

place  was  charmed,  and  that  the  charm  was  draw- 
ing into  its  ban  her  very  thoughts  and  emotions. 
She  felt  subdued,  quieted.  It  was  as  she  had  said — 
the  ages  seemed  to  hover  like  ghosts  about  them, 
and  her  hard,  worldly  skepticism  could  make  no 
stand  against  the  hush  and  mystery  of  the  past. 
Here  generation  after  generation,  amidst  danger, 
battle  and  death,  men  had  bowed  down  and  poured 
out  their  hottest,  most  fervent  prayers,  and  their 
sincerity  and  faith  had  sanctified  the  ground  for 
Christian,  Brahman  and  skeptic  alike. 

Beatrice  looked  at  the  man  beside  her.  She  had 
the  feeling  that,  while  she  had  stood  and  wondered, 
he  had  been  praying;  and  possibly  she  was  right, 
though  he  returned  her  glance  immediately. 

"This  is  a  holy  place,"  he  said.  "It  is  holiest  of 
all  for  me.  Here  I  have  spent  my  most  solemn 
happy  hours;  here  God  spoke  direct  to  me  and  an- 
swered me." 

It  seemed  quite  natural  that  he  should  speak 
thus  so  openly  and  directly  to  her  of  his  nearest 
concerns.  The  barrier  which  separated  them  per- 
haps, after  all,  made  the  intercourse  between  them 
easier  and  less  constrained  than  it  would  otherwise 
have  been.  They  had  no  responsibility  toward  each 
other.  They  lived  in  different  worlds,  and  if  for  a 
moment  they  exchanged  messages,  it  was  only  for  a 
moment.  When  it  was  over,  the  dividing  sea  would 
once  more  roll  between  them,  leaving  no  trace  of  their 
brief  intercourse. 

Remembering  all  this,  she  threw  off  the  momen- 
tary sense  of  trouble. 

"Tell  me  how  and  when  that  was,"  she  said. 


THE  IDEAL  101 

"I  can  not  tell  you — not  now.  One  day  I  will. 
One  day  I  shall  have  a  great  deal  to  tell  you,  and 
you  will  have  a  great  deal  to  tell  me.  You  will  tell 
me  of  your  faith.  I  know  nothing  of  your  God. 
All  that  has  been  kept  secret  from  me." 

"How  do  you  know  I  have  a  God?"  she  demanded 
sharply. 

They  had  passed  out  of  the  sanctuary  and  were 
walking  back  toward  the  entrance.  He  half  stopped 
and  looked  at  her  in  grave  surprise. 

"How  do  I  know?  How,  rather,  is  it  possible  that 
it  should  be  otherwise?  You  are  too  good  and 
beautiful  not  to  have  learnt  at  the  feet  of  a  great 
teacher." 

His  naivete  and  confidence  set  her  once  more  in  a 
state  between  indulgent  amusement  and  anger.  An- 
other man  she  would  have  laughed  at  straight  in  the 
face,  but  this  simple  belief  in  her  goodness  threw  her 
out  of  her  usual  stride,  and  in  the  end  she  left  him 
without  answer,  save  that  which  he  chose  to  interpret 
from  her  silence. 

As  they  reached  the  great  doorway  through  the 
gopura,  a  tall  figure  advanced  to  meet  them  which 
Beatrice  at  once  recognized  in  spite  of  the  gathering 
twilight.  She  had  been  expecting  this  new-comer  for 
some  time,  yet  his  appearance  disturbed  her  as  some- 
thing undesirable. 

"There  is  a  man  I  like,"  Nehal  Singh  remarked, 
with  a  sudden  pleasure.  "Is  not  Travers  his  name? 
He  disappointed  me  least  of  all." 

"You  have  an  excellent  judgment,"  Beatrice  re- 
turned. 

If  there  was  an  undercurrent  of  sarcasm  in  her 


102  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

approval,  Nehal  Singh  did  not  notice  it.  He  ad- 
vanced quickly  to  meet  Travers. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  found  your  way  here,"  he 
said.  "It  is  the  most  beautiful  part  of  all,  and  per- 
haps I  should  have  acted  as  guide  to  my  other 
guests.  But  my  first  duty  was  here."  He  turned 
to  Beatrice  with  a  grave  inclination. 

Travers  laughed. 

"You  need  be  in  no  alarm,  Rajah  Sahib,"  he  said. 
"We  have  been  enjoying  ourselves  immensely,  and 
no  wonder,  considering  all  the  glories  that  have 
been  laid  open  to  us.  I  have  seen  much  wealth 
and  splendor  in  India,  but  not  as  here.  I  feel  over- 
whelmed." 

"There  is  still  much  for  you  to  see,"  Nehal  Singh 
answered  with  a  proud  pleasure. 

Other  members  of  the  party  had  by  this  time 
joined  them,  and  Beatrice  dropped  back  to  her 
mother's  side.  The  whole  thing  had  been,  as  Mrs. 
Berry  said,  arranged,  but  not  in  the  way  the  good 
lady  supposed,  and  Beatrice's  task  was  at  an  end. 

Travers  hastened  his  step  imperceptibly,  so  that 
the  distance  between  him  and  the  rest  was  increased 
beyond  hearing  distance. 

"Of  course,"  he  began,  with  a  frank  confidence 
which  fell  pleasingly  on  his  companion's  ears,  "I 
am  a  business  man,  and  a  great  deal  of  my  admira- 
tion is  from  a  business  standpoint.  You  will  per- 
haps hardly  understand  me  when  I  say  that  my 
flesh  simply  creeps  when  I  think  of  all  the  wealth  that 
lies  here  inactive.  Wealth  is  power,  Rajah  Sahib,  and 
in  your  hand  there  lies  a  power  for  good  or  evil  which 
dazzles  the  senses  of  a  less  fortunate  man." 


THE  IDEAL  103 

Nehal  Singh  lifted  his  face  thoughtfully  toward  the 
evening  sky. 

"Power  for  good  or  evil !"  he  echoed.  "It  may  be 
that  you  are  right.  But  power  is  a  great  clumsy 
giant,  who  can  accomplish  nothing  without  the  ex- 
perienced guiding  brain." 

"I  imagine  you  have  both,  Rajah  Sahib." 

"Not  the  experience.  I  have  led  a  life  apart.  I 
feel  myself  helpless  before  the  very  thought  of  any 
effort  in  the  world.  Yet  I  should  be  glad  to  ac- 
complish something — to  help  even  a  little  in  the  gen- 
eral progress." 

"You  will  learn  easily  enough,"  Travers  broke 
in,  with  enthusiasm.  "It  is  only  necessary  to  go 
outside  your  gates  to  find  a  hundred  outlets  for 
energy  and  purpose.  If  you  traveled  two  days  among 
your  people,  you  would  come  back  knowing  very  well 
what  awaited  your  power  to  accomplish." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  Nehal  returned, 
smiling,  "for  I  am  ambitious." 

"Ambition  and  power!"  exclaimed  Travers.  "You 
are  indeed  to  be  envied,  Rajah  Sahib !" 

"What  would  you  do  in  my  place?"  Nehal  asked, 
after  a  moment,  in  a  lighter  tone,  which  concealed 
a  real  and  eager  curiosity. 

Travers  shook  his  head. 

"The  greater  the  power  the  greater  the  responsi- 
bility," he  answered.  "I  couldn't  say  on  the  spur 
of  the  moment.  If  I  were  given  time,  no  doubt  I 
should  be  able  to  tell  you." 

"I  give  you  till  our  next  meeting,  then,"  Nehal 
said  gravely. 

"Our  next  meeting?    I  trust,  then,  Rajah  Sahib, 


104  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

that  you  will  condescend  to  be  the  guest  of  the 
English  Station?" 

Nehal  turned  his  head  to  hide  the  flash  of  boyish 
satisfaction  which  shone  out  of  his  eyes.  It  was 
that  he  wanted — to  go  among  this  people,  from  their 
own  hearth  to  judge  them,  and  to  probe  down  into  the 
source  of  their  greatness. 

"It  would  give  me  much  pleasure,"  he  answered 
quietly. 

It  was  Travers'  turn  to  hide  the  triumph  which 
the  willing  acceptance  aroused.  Nevertheless,  his 
next  words  were  whimsically  regretful. 

"Unfortunately,  we  have  no  place  in  which  to 
offer  you  a  fitting  welcome,  Rajah  Sahib,"  he  said. 
"For  a  long  time  it  has  been  the  ambition  of  the 
Station  to  build  some  place  wherein  all  such  fes- 
tivities could  be  properly  celebrated.  But  alas !" — 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders — "it  is  the  fate  of  the 
Anglo-Indian  to  work  for  the  richness  and  great- 
ness of  his  country  and  himself  remain  miserably 
poor." 

"How  much  money  would  be  required?"  Nehal 
Singh  asked. 

"You  will  no  doubt  be  amused  at  the  smallness 
of  the  sum — a  mere  four  thousand  rupees — but  it 
is  just  so  much  we  have  not  got." 

Nehal  Singh  smiled. 

"Let  me  at  once  begin  to  make  use  of  my  power," 
he  said  graciously.  "It  would  be  a  pleasure  to  me 
to  mark  my  first  meeting  with  you  by  the  gift  of 
the  building  you  require.  I  place  the  matter  in 
your  hands,  Sahib  Travers.  For  the  time  being, 


THE  IDEAL  105 

until  I  have  gained  my  own  experience,  yours  must 
be  the  guiding  brain." 

The  good-looking  Englishman  appeared  to  be 
considerably  taken  aback — almost  distressed. 

"You  are  too  generous,  Rajah  Sahib !"  he  pro- 
tested. To  himself  he  commented  on  the  rapidity 
with  which  this  fellow  had  picked  up  the  lingo  of 
polite  society. 

All  further  conversation  was  cut  short  by  a 
cry  of  admiration  from  the  crowd  behind  them. 
They  had  reached  the  chief  entrance  to  the  palace, 
and  suddenly,  as  though  at  a  given  signal,  every 
outline  of  the  building  became  marked  out  by  count- 
less points  of  light  which  sparkled  starlike  against 
the  darkening  sky.  At  the  same  instant,  the  temple 
to  their  left  took  form  in  a  hundred  colors,  and  a 
burst  of  weird  music  broke  on  the  ears  of  the  won- 
dering spectators.  It  was  a  strange  and  beautiful 
scene,  such  as  few  of  them  had  ever  seen.  Fairy 
palaces  of  fire  seemed  to  hover  miraculously  in  the 
evening  air,  and  over  everything  hung  the  curious, 
indefinable  charm  of  the  mysterious  East. 

Nehal  Singh  turned  and  found  Lois  Caruthers 
standing  with  Stafford  a  little  behind  him.  Both 
their  names  were  forgotten,  but  the  dark  eager 
face  of  the  girl  attracted  him  and  at  the  same  time 
puzzled  him  as  something  which  struck  a  hitherto 
unsuspected  chord  in  his  innermost  self. 

"You  find  it  well?"  he  asked  her. 

"It  is  most  beautiful,"  she  answered.  "It  is  good  of 
you,  Rajah  Sahib,  to  give  us  so  much  pleasure." 

That  was  all   she  said,  but  among  all  his   mem- 


io6  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

ories  of  that  evening  she  remained  prominent,  be- 
cause she  had  spoken  sincerely,  warmly,  enthusi- 
astically. Others  thanked  him — the  Colonel's  little 
speech  at  the  end  was  a  piece  of  studied  rhetoric, 
but  it  left  him  cold  where  her  thanks  had  left  him 
warm,  almost  gratefully  so. 

On  the  whole,  the  first  meeting  between  the  Eng- 
lish residents  of  Marut  and  the  young  native  prince 
was  classified  as  a  success.  As  they  drove  through 
the  darkness,  the  returning  guests  called  terse  crit- 
icisms to  one  another  which  tended  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  whole  thing  had  not  been  at  all  bad,  and 
that  for  the  circumstances  the  Rajah  was  a  remark- 
ably well-mannered  individual. 

Beatrice  Gary  took  no  part  in  the  light-hearted 
exchange.  Her  mother  had  gone  off  with  Mrs. 
Carmichael  in  her  carriage,  and  Travers  having  of- 
fered to  drive  her  home,  she  had  accepted,  and  now 
sat  by  his  side,  thoughtful,  almost  depressed, 
though  she  did  not  own  it,  even  to  herself. 

Try  as  she  would  she  could  not  throw  off  the 
constantly  recurring  memory  of  her  parting  with 
Nehal  Singh.  She  made  fun  of  it  and  of  herself, 
and  yet  she  could  not  laugh  over  it — her  power  of 
irresponsible  enjoyment  had  been  taken  suddenly 
from  her. 

"You  will  not  now  say  that  we  shall  never  meet 
again,"  he  had  said,  pressing  something  into  her 
hand.  "Now  you  will  never  forget,"  he  had  added. 
"It  is  a  talisman  of  remembrance." 

What  he  had  given  her  she  did  not  know.  It 
lay  tightly  clutched  in  the  palm  of  her  hand — some- 
thing hard  and  cold  which  she  dared  not  look  at. 


THE  IDEAL  107 

She  had  not  even  been  able  to  remonstrate  or  thank 
him.  She  had  been  spellbound,  hypnotized. 

"It  really  has  been  splendid !"  she  heard  Travers 
say  in  her  ear.  "Things  went  just  like  clockwork. 
Five  minutes'  conversation  got  the  whole  club- 
house out  of  him,  and  what  you  managed  in  your 
quarter  of  an  hour,  goodness  knows.  You  are  a  clever 
woman  and  no  mistake!" 

"Please — don't!"  she  burst  out  irritably. 

"Hullo!  What's  the  matter?  What  are  you  so 
cross  about?" 

"I'm  not  cross — only  tired,  tired,  tired  and  sick 
of  it  all.  Do  drive  on !" 

Far  behind  them  a  solitary  figure  stood  on  the 
broad  steps  of  the  palace,  amidst  the  dying  splen- 
dors of  the  evening  and  gazed  in  the  direction  which 
the  merry  procession  had  taken.  A  long  time  it  had 
stood  there,  motionless,  passive,  the  fine  husk  of  the 
soul  which  had  wandered  out  into  a  new  world  of  hope 
and  possibilities  following  the  woman  whose  hand  had 
flung  the  gates  wide  for  him  to  enter  in. 

Another  figure  crept  out  of  the  shadows  and  drew 
near.  Twisted  and  bent,  it  stood  beside  the  bold,  up- 
right form  and  lifted  its  face,  hate-filled,  to  the  pale 
light  of  the  stars. 

"Nehal  Singh,  Nehal  Singh — oh,  my  son!" 

The  prince  turned  coldly. 

"Is  it  thou  ?    Hast  thou  a  dagger  in  thy  hand  ?" 

"I  have  no  dagger — would  to  God  I  had!  Nehal 
Singh,  I  have  seen  mine  enemy's  face." 

"How  meanest  thou  ?    Thy  enemy  is  dead." 

"Nevertheless,  his  face  is  among  the  living.  As 
a  servant,  I  crept  among  the  strangers,  and  saw  him 


io8  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

straight  in  the  eyes.  He  has  grown  younger,  but  it  is 
he.  It  is  the  body  of  the  son,  but  the  soul  of  his  father 
in  his  eyes — and,  father  or  son,  their  blood  is  poison 
to  me." 

Nehal  Singh  knit  his  brows. 

"Knowest  thou  his  name?" 

"Ay,  now  I  know  his  name.  It  came  back  to  me 
when  I  saw  his  face.  Stafford  he  was  called — 
Stafford!"  He  crept  closer,  his  thin  hand  fell  like 
a  vise  on  Nehal's  arm.  "Kill  him!"  he  whispered. 
"Kill  him — the  son  of  thy  father's  betrayer!" 

Nehal  Singh  shook  himself  free. 

"I  can  not,"  he  answered  proudly,  and  a  warm  thrill 
of  enthusiasm  rang  in  his  voice.  "I  can  not.  They  are 
all  my  brothers.  I  can  not  take  my  brother's  blood." 

With  a  moan  of  anger  the  twisted  figure  crept 
back  into  the  shadow,  and  once  more  Nehal  Singh 
stood  alone. 

Unconsciously  he  had  accepted  and  proclaimed 
Beatrice  Gary's  ideal  as  his  own.  The  hour  of 
bloodshed  was  gone,  mercy  and  justice  called  him 
in  its  stead.  And  in  that  acceptance  of  a  new  era 
his  gaze  pierced  through  the  obscurity  into  a  light 
beyond.  The  jungle  which  had  bound  his  life  was 
gone ;  all  hindrances,  all  gulfs  of  hatred  and  revenge, 
were  overthrown  and  bridged.  The  world  of  the 
Great  People  stood  open  to  him,  and  to  them  he 
held  out  the  casteless  hand  of  love  and  fellowship. 


CHAPTER  IX 

CHECKED 

LOIS  and  Stafford  had  arrived  at  that  stage  of 
friendship  when  conversation  becomes  unnecessary. 
They  walked  side  by  side  through  the  Colonel's 
carefully  tended  garden  and  were  scarcely  con- 
scious that  they  had  dropped  into  a  thoughtful  si- 
lence. Yet,  as  though  in  obedience  to  some  un- 
spoken agreement,  their  footsteps  found  their  way 
to  the  ruined  bungalow  and  there  paused. 

As  a  look  can  be  more  powerfully  descriptive 
than  a  word,  so  these  shot-riddled  walls  had  their  own 
eloquence.  Each  shot-hole,  each  jagged  splinter 
and  torn  hinge  had  its  own  history  and  added  its 
pathetic  detail  to  the  whole  picture  of  that  disas- 
trous night  when  the  vengeance  of  Behar  Singh 
had  burst  like  a  hurricane  over  the  defenseless  land. 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  Stafford  stepped  for- 
ward and,  pushing  aside  the  heavy  festoons  of 
creeper  which  barred  the  doorway,  passed  through 
into  the  gloomy  interior. 

"I  should  like  to  see  the  place  from  the  inside," 
he  explained  to  Lois,  who,  with  an  uncontrollable 
shudder,  had  followed  him.  "One  can  imagine  bet- 
ter then  how  it  all  happened." 

"I  think  of  it  all — often,"  she  answered  in  a 
hushed  voice,  "and  every  time  I  seem  to  see  things 
differently.  My  poor  mother!" 

109 


no  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"You  never  knew  her?"  he  asked. 

"No,  I  was  too  young — scarcely  more  than  a 
year  old.  Yet  her  loss  seems  to  have  overshadowed 
my  whole  life." 

"Was  she  like  you?" 

"Yes,  I  believe  so.  She  was  dark — not  so  dark  as 
I  am — but  she  was  stately  and  beautiful.  So  she 
has  always  been  described  to  me,  and  so  I  always 
seem  to  see  her." 

Stafford  turned  and  looked  about  him. 

"It  must  be  almost  as  it  was  then,"  he  said  won- 
deringly,  pointing"  to  the  rusty  truckle-bed  in  the 
corner.  "And  there  is  the  broken  over-turned 
chair!  It  might  have  been  yesterday." 

She  nodded. 

"So  my  guardian  found  it,"  she  said.  "It  had 
been  my  father's  bungalow  and  he  never  allowed 
it  to  be  touched.  When  I  came  of  age  I  gave  it  to 
him.  It  seemed  to  belong  to  him,  somehow.  They 
say  that  it  nearly  broke  his  heart  when  he  found 
that  he  had  come  too  late  to  save  my  father.  My 
father  was  his  dearest,  almost  his  only  friend." 

"Were  they  killed  at  once?"  Stafford  asked  with 
hesitating  curiosity.  "I  have  never  known  the 
rights  of  the  case.  It  has  always  been  a  painful 
subject  for  me — with  you  I  don't  mind." 

It  was  the  faintest  allusion  to  a  bond  between 
them  which  both  silently  recognized,  and  Lois  turned 
away  to  hide  the  signal  of  happiness  which  had  risen 
to  her  cheeks. 

"No  one  knows,"  she  answered.  "The  bodies 
were  never  found.  It  was  part  of  Behar  Singh's 
cruelty  to  hide  the  real  fate  of  his  victims.  For  a 


CHECKED  in 

long  time  people  used  to  hope  and  hope  that  in 
some  dungeon  or  prison  they  would  find  their 
friends,  but  they  never  did.  One  can  only  pray 
that  the  end  was  a  mercifully  quick  one." 

"And  Behar  Singh  died  in  the  jungle?" 

"So  the  natives  said.  No  one  really  knows,"  she 
replied. 

"I  wish  he  hadn't,"  Stafford  said,  his  good-na- 
tured face  darkening.  "It  seems  unfair  that  he 
should  have  caused  our  people  to  suffer  so  much 
and  we  have  never  had  the  chance  to  pay  back. 
Whatever  made  the  Government  give  his  son  the 
power,  goodness  only  knows." 

"The  present  Rajah  was  a  baby  then,"  she  said 
in  a  tone  of  gentle  remonstrance.  "It  would  have 
been  hard  to  have  punished  him  for  the  sins  of 
his  father." 

Nothing  appeals  to  a  man  more  than  a  woman's 
undiplomatic  tenderness  for  the  whole  world.  Staf- 
ford looked  down  at  Lois  with  a  smile. 

"You  dear,  good-hearted  little  girl !"  he  said. 
"And  yet,  blood  is  blood,  you  know.  Somehow,  one 
can't  get  over  it.  In  spite  of  his  good  looks,  it  al- 
ways seems  to  me  as  though  I  could  see  his  father's 
treachery  in  Nehal  Singh's  eyes.  It  made  me  sick 
to  think  that  I  was  enjoying  his  hospitality — it 
makes  me  feel  worse  that  we  have  to  accept  the 
club-house  at  his  hands.  Travers  behaved  pretty 
badly,  according  to  my  ideas." 

"It  was  mostly  Miss  Gary's  doing,"  Lois  ob- 
jected. She  liked  Travers,  and  was  inclined  to 
take  up  the  cudgels  on  his  behalf. 

Stafford's  eyes  twinkled.    On  his  side  he  had  the 


ii2  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

rooted  and  not  unfounded  masculine  notion  that  all 
women  are  jealous  of  one  another. 

"Miss  Gary  is  young  and  inexperienced  and  prob- 
ably did  not  realize  what  she  was  doing,"  he  retorted. 
"From  what  she  told  me,  she  takes  the  whole  matter 
as  a  big  joke,  and  now  that  the  fat  is  in  the  fire  it's  no 
use  enlightening  her." 

Lois  made  no  immediate  answer,  though  she  may 
have  had  her  doubts  on  the  subject  of  Beatrice 
Gary's  inexperience. 

"The  poor  Rajah !"  she  said,  after  a  pause,  as 
Stafford  walked  curiously  about  the  room.  "I 
could  not  help  being1  sorry  for  him.  He  seemed  so 
eager  and  enthusiastic  and  anxious  to  please  us, 
and  we  were  so  cold  and  ungrateful.  Tell  me,  does 
it  really  make  so  much  difference?" 

He  came  back  to  her  side.  Something  in  her 
voice  had  touched  him  and  stirred  to  life  a  warmth 
of  feeling  which  was  more  than  that  of  friendship. 

"What  makes  so  much  difference?"  he  asked,  smil- 
ing down  at  her  small  troubled  face.  "What  are 
you  worrying  yourself  about  now?" 

"Oh,  it  has  always  troubled  me,"  she  answered 
with  the  impetuosity  which  characterized  her.  "I 
have  often  worried  about  it.  I  mean,"  she  added, 
as  he  laughed  at  her  incoherence,  "all  that  race  dis- 
tinction. Does  it  really  mean  so  much?  Will  it 
never  be  bridged  over?" 

"Never,"  he  said.  "It  can't  be.  It  is  a  justified 
distinction  and  to  my  mind  those  who  ignore  it 
are  to  be  despised." 

He  had  answered  her  question  with  only  a  part 
seriousness,  his  whole  interest  concentrated  on  the 


CHECKED  113 

charm  of  her  personality.  But  for  once  her  gravity; 
resisted  the  suppressed  merriment  in  his  eyes. 

"Are  the  natives,  then,  so  contemptible?"  she 
asked. 

"Not  exactly  contemptible,  but  inferior.  They 
have  not  our  culture,  and  whatsoever  they  borrow 
from  us  is  only  skin-deep.  Beneath  the  varnish 
they  are  their  elemental  selves — lazy,  cruel,  treach- 
erous and  unscrupulous.  No,  no.  Each  race  must 
keep  to  itself.  Our  strength  in  India  depends  on 
our.  exclusiveness — upon  keeping  ourselves  apart 
and  above  as  superior  beings.  So  long  as  they  rec- 
ognize we  are  superior,  so  long  will  they  obey  us." 

"It  is  superiority,  then,  which  prevents  every 
one  except  professors  from  taking  any  interest  in 
the  natives?" 

"Possibly,"  he  returned,  not  quite  so  much  at  his 
ease.  "One  feels  a  natural  repugnance,  you  know." 

"You  would  never  have  anything  to  do  with 
them?" 

"Not  if  I  could  help  it." 

She  sighed  and  turned  away  as  though  his  gaze 
troubled  her. 

"I  don't  know  why — it  makes  me  sad  to  hear 
you  talk  like  that,"  she  said.  "It  seems  so  terribly 
hard." 

"It  is  hard,"  he  affirmed,  following  her  out  of  the 
curious,  heavy  atmosphere  into  the  evening  sun- 
shine. "There  are  a  great  many  things  in  life 
which,  as  far  as  we  know,  are  inevitable,  so  that 
there  is  no  use  in  worrying  or  thinking  about  them." 
Her  more  serious  mood  had  conquered  his  good 
spirits,  and  for  a  moment  he  stood  at  her  side  look- 


114  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

ing  at  the  disused  bungalow  with  eyes  as  thought- 
ful as  her  own.  "Isn't  it  strange?"  he  went  on. 
"Our  parents  came  together  from  different  ends 
of  the  earth,  doomed  to  die  in  the  same  spot  and 
in  the  same  hour,  and  we  children,  far  away  in 
England,  knowing  nothing  of  each  other,  have 
drifted  back  to  the  fatal  place  to  find  each  other 
there  and  to — " 

"Yes,"  she  said  as  he  hesitated,  "it  is  strange.  I 
could  almost  think  that  this  bungalow  had  some 
mysterious  influence  over  our  lives." 

He  smiled  in  half  confirmation  of  her  fancy. 

"It  may  be.  But  come!  We  have  had  enough 
gloom  for  one  evening.  Let  me  gather  some  flow- 
ers for  you  before  we  go  back." 

She  assented,  and  they  followed  the  winding 
paths,  stopping  here  and  there  to  cut  down  some 
of  the  most  tempting  of  Mrs.  Carmichael's  tender- 
ly loved  blossoms  and  always  turning  aside  when 
they  came  in  sight  of  the  Colonel's  verandah.  No 
word  of  tenderness  had  ever  passed  between  them, 
and  yet  they  were  happy  to  be  together.  It  was 
as  though  a  bond  united  them  which  had  grown 
up,  silent  and  unseen,  from  the  first  hour  they  had 
met,  and  in  a  quiet,  peaceful  way  they  knew  that 
it  existed  and  that  they  loved  each  other. 

From  the  verandah  where  she  was  sewing  by 
the  fading  light  Mrs.  Carmichael  could  watch  their 
appearing  and  disappearing  figures  amidst  the  trees 
with  the  satisfaction  of  a  confirmed  match-maker. 
She,  too,  knew  of  this  bond,  and  though  she  was 
a  trifle  impatient  with  the  slowness  of  the  develop- 
ment, she  was  content  to  bide  her  time. 


CHECKED  115 

"I  don't  usually  pay  any  attention  to  Station  gos- 
sip," she  said  to  her  husband,  who  was  trying  to 
read  the  newly  arrived  English  paper,  "but  for  once 
in  a  way  I  believe  there  is  something  in  it.  Accord- 
ing to  my  experience,  they  should  be  engaged  in 
less  than  a  fortnight." 

Colonel  Carmichael  started. 

"Who?    Lois  and  Stafford?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  Who  else?  Everybody  looks 
upon  it  as  practically  settled.  Why  do  you  look 
like  that?  You  ought  to  be  pleased.  You  said  your- 
self that  you  were  very  fond  of  Stafford — " 

Carmichael  made  a  quick  gesture  as  though  to 
stop  the  threatening  torrent  of  expostulation.  He 
had  turned  crimson  and  his  whole  manner  was 
marked  by  an  unusual  uneasiness. 

"Of  course,  I  am  fond  of  Stafford,"  he  began. 
"I  only  meant — " 

He  was  saved  the  trouble  of  explaining  what  he 
did  mean  by  a  sudden  exclamation  from  his  wife, 
who  had  let  her  work  fall  to  the  ground  with  a 
start  of  alarm. 

"Good  gracious,  Mr.  Travers!"  she  cried  in  her 
sharp  way.  "What  a  fright  you  gave  me !  I  thought 
you  were  a  horrible  thug  or  something  come  to 
murder  us  all.  There,  how  do  you  do !"  She  gave 
him  her  hand.  "Will  you  have  a  cup  of  tea?  We 
have  just  had  ours,  but  if  you  would,  I  am  quite 
ready  to  keep  you  company.  Tea,  as  you  know,  is 
a  weakness  of  mine.  That  is  why  my  nerves  are 
so  bad/' 

Travers  bowed,  smiling.  He  was  rather  paler 
than  usual  and  the  hand  which  held  a  large  bou- 


ii6  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

quet  of  freshly  cut  flowers  trembled  as  though  the 
shock  his  sudden  appearance  had  caused  Mrs.  Car- 
michael  had  recoiled  on  himself. 

"Thank  you — no,"  he  said.  "As  a  matter  of  fact, 
I  came  to  bring  these  for  Miss  Caruthers,  but  as  she 
is  not  here  I  should  be  very  grateful  if  I  might  have 
a  few  words  with  you  alone.  I  have  something 
of  importance,  which  it  would  be  perhaps  better 
to  tell  you  first." 

"Certainly,"  the  Colonel  said,  clearing  his  throat 
and  settling  himself  farther  back  in  his  chair.  "There 
is  no  time  like  the  present." 

Travers  looked  at  him  in  troubled  surprise.  The 
elder  man's  tone  and  attitude  were  those  of  some 
one  confronted  with  a  not  unexpected  but  unpleas- 
ant crisis. 

"It  concerns  your  ward,  Colonel  Carmichael," 
Travers  said,  taking  the  chair  offered  him.  "I  think 
you  must  have  known  long  ago  that  I  cared  very 
dearly  for  her.  I  have  come  now  to  ask  her  to  be 
my  wife." 

He  spoke  quickly  and  abruptly,  as  though  to  hide 
a  powerful  emotion,  and  there  was  an  instant's  un- 
comfortable silence.  Mrs.  Carmichael's  head  was 
bent  over  her  work.  She  did  not  dislike  Travers, 
but  this  unexpected  proposal  upset  all  her  plans 
and  though  it  flattered  her  pride  in  Lois,  she  felt 
disturbed  and  thrown  out  of  her  course. 

"I  think  you  have  made  a  mistake,  Mr.  Travers," 
she  said  at  last,  as  her  husband  remained  obstinate- 
ly silent.  "I  have  every  reason  to  believe  that  Lois' 
heart  is  given  elsewhere.  However,  we  have  no 
right  to  interfere — Lois  must  decide  for  herself. 


CHECKED  117 

She  is  her  own  mistress.  What  do  you  say,  George, 
dear?" 

The  Colonel  shifted  his  position.  Evidently  he 
was  at  a  loss  to  express  himself,  and  his  brow  re- 
mained clouded. 

"If  it  is  'Lois'  wish,  I  shall  put  no  obstacle  in  the 
way  of  her  happiness,"  he  said  slowly. 

"Have  you  any  personal  objection,  Colonel?" 

"I?    O,  dear,  no!"  was  the  hurried  answer. 

There  was  a  second  silence,  in  which  Mrs.  Car- 
michael  and  Travers  exchanged  baffled  glances. 
The  Colonel  seemed  in  some  unaccountable  way 
to  have  lost  his  nerve  and,  as  though  he  felt  and 
feared  the  questioning  gaze  of  his  wife,  he  leaned 
forward  so  that  his  face  was  hidden. 

"Personally  I  have  no  objection  at  all,"  he  re- 
peated, as  if  seeking  to  gain  time.  "Like  my  wife, 
I  had  other  ideas  on  the  subject,  but  that  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  it.  At  the  same  time,  I  feel  it — eh — 
my  duty  to — eh — tell  you  before  you  go  further — 
for  your  sake,  and — eh — every  one's  sake — certain 
details  concerning  Lois  which  I  have  not  thought 
necessary  to  give  to  the  world  in  general.  You 
understand — I  consider  it  my  duty — only  fair  to 
yourself  and  Lois." 

"I  quite  understand,"  Travers  said.  He  seemed 
in  no  way  surprised,  and  his  expression  was  that 
of  a  man  waiting  for  the  explanation  to  a  problem 
which  had  long  puzzled  him. 

"Really,  George!"  expostulated  Mrs.  Carmichael, 
not  without  indignation,  "one  would  think  you  were 
about  to  disinter  the  most  horrible  family  skeleton. 
You  are  not  to  be  alarmed,  Mr.  Travers.  It  is  all 


ii8  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

a  little  mysterious,  perhaps,  but  nothing  to  make 
such  a  fuss  about." 

The  Colonel  looked  up  under  the  sting  of  her 
reproach  and  tried  to  smile. 

"I  dare  say  my  wife  is  right,"  he  said.  "I  am 
rather  foolish  about  the  matter — possibly  because 
it  is  all  linked  together  with  a  very  painful  period 
of  my  life.  Mr.  Travers,  my  dearest  friend,  Steven 
Caruthers,  had  no  children.  The  baby  girl  whom 
by  his  will  he  intrusted  to  my  care  was  not  his 
child,  nor  have  I  ever  been  able  to  discover  whose 
child  she  really  was.  His  will  spoke  of  her  as  his 
adopted  daughter,  who  was  to  bear  his  name  and 
in  fault  of  any  other  heir  to  inherit  both  his  own 
and  his  wife's  large  fortune.  More  I  can  not  tell  you, 
for  I  myself  do  not  know  more." 

He  laid  an  almost  timid  emphasis  on  the  word 
"know,"  as  though  somewhere  at  the  back  of  his 
mind  there  lurked  a  suspicion  which  he  dared  nei- 
ther deny  nor  express  openly,  and,  in  spite  of  his 
attempt  at  cheerfulness,  his  features  were  still  dis- 
turbed and  gloomy. 

"You  know  one  thing  more,  which  you  haven't 
mentioned,"  Mrs.  Carmichael  said,  "and  that  is  that 
Lois  is  of  good  family  on  both  sides.  Steven  Caru- 
thers told  you  so." 

"Yes,  that's  true — I  forgot,"  the  Colonel  assented. 
"He  assured  me  that  on  both  sides  she  was  of  good, 
even  high  birth,  and  that  he  had  adopted  her  partly 
because  he  had  no  children  of  his  own  and  partly 
because  of  a  debt  of  gratitude  which  he  owed  her 
father.  It  does  not  seem  to  me  that  it  makes  much 
difference." 


CHECKED  119 

"It  makes  all  the  difference  in  the  world,  George," 
retorted  Mrs.  Carmichael,  who  for  some  reason  or 
another  was  considerably  put  out.  "You  don't 
want  Mr.  Travers  to  think  that  Lois  was  picked 
up  in  the  street,  do  you?" 

"Of  course  not,"  her  husband  agreed,  "but  then 
— "  He  broke  off,  and  all  three  relapsed  into  an 
awkward  silence.  Travers  was  the  first  to  speak. 
He  had  been  looking  out  over  the  garden  and  had 
seen  Lois'  white  dress  flash  through  the  bushes. 

"For  my  part,"  he  began  quietly,  "I  can  not  see 
that  what  you  have  told  me  can  have  an  influence 
on  the  matter.  I  love  Lois.  That  is  the  chief  thing 
— or  rather  the  chief  thing  is  whether  or  not  she 
can  learn  to  love  me.  Whether  she  is  the  child  of 
a  sweep  or  a  prince,  it  makes  no  difference  to  my 
feelings  toward  her." 

Mrs.  Carmichael  held  out  her  hand. 

"Well,  whatever  happens,  you  are  a  man  before 
you  are  a  prig,"  she  said,  "and  that  is  something 
to  be  thankful  for  in  these  degenerate  days.  Why, 
there  is  the  child  herself!  Come  here,  my  dear." 

Lois  came  running  up  the  verandah  steps  with 
Stafford  close  behind  her.  Her  eyes  were  full  of 
laughter  and  sunshine,  and  in  her  hand  she  held  a 
mass  of  roses  which  Stafford  had  gathered  during 
their  ramble. 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Travers,"  she  exclaimed  with 
pleased  surprise,  as  he  rose  to  greet  her.  "I  did  not 
expect  to  find  you  here.  How  grave  you  all  look ! 
And  what  lovely  flowers !" 

Travers  considered  his  bouquet  with  a  rueful 
smile. 


120  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

"I  brought  them  from  my  garden,  Miss  Caru- 
thers,"  he  said.  "They  were  meant  for  to-night's 
festivity.  But  it  seems  they  have  come  too  late — 
you  are  already  well  supplied." 

"Flowers  never  come  too  late  and  one  can  never 
have  too  many  of  them!"  Lois  answered  gratefully. 
"Please  bring  them  in  here  and  I  will  put  them  in 
water." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  drawing-room  and  he 
followed  her  eagerly.  Whether  it  was  the  sight  of 
her  charm  and  youth,  or  the  warm  greeting  which 
he  had  read  in  her  eyes,  or  the  satisfied  calm  on 
Stafford's  face,  Travers  himself  could  not  have  told, 
but  in  that  moment  he  lost  his  usual  self-possession. 
He  was  white  and  shaken  like  a  man  who  sees  him- 
self thrust  suddenly  to  the  brink  of  a  chasm  and 
knows  that  he  must  cross  or  fall. 

"Miss  Caruthers!"  he  said. 

She  turned  quickly  from  the  flowers  which  she  was 
arranging  in  a  bowl.  The  smile  of  pleasure  which 
still  lingered  about  her  lips  died  away  as  she  saw 
his  face. 

"Miss  Caruthers,"  he  repeated  earnestly,  "it  is 
perhaps  neither  wise  nor  right  of  me  to  speak  now, 
but  there  are  moments  when  anything — even  the 
worst — is  better  than  uncertainty,  when  a  man  can 
bear  no  more.  Forgive  me — I  am  not  eloquent  and 
what  I  have  to  tell  can  be  encompassed  in  one  word. 
I  love  you,  Lois.  I  think  you  must  know  it,  though 
you  can  not  know  how  great  my  love  is.  Is  there  any 
hope  for  me?" 

She  drew  her  hand  gently  but  firmly  from  his 
half-unconscious  clasp. 


CHECKED  I2i 

"I  am  sorry — no,"  she  said. 

"Lois — I  can't  give  up  hope.  Is  there  some  one 
else?" 

She  lifted  her  troubled  eyes  to  his  face.  He  saw 
in  their  depths  a  curious  doubt  and  uncertainty. 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said  almost  to  herself.  "I 
only  know  that  you  are  not  the  man." 

The  blow  had  calmed  him.  'Like  a  good  general 
who  has  suffered  a  temporary  check,  he  gathered 
his  forces  together  and  prepared  an  orderly  retreat. 

"I  will  not  trouble  you,"  he  said  gently.  "I  feel 
now  that  I  did  wrong  to  disturb  your  peace — God 
knows  I  would  never  willingly  cause  you  an  in- 
stant's sorrow — but  a  man  who  loves  as  I  do  must 
feed  himself  with  hope,  however  wild  and  unreason- 
able. Now  I  know,  and  whatever  happens — I  hope 
you  will  be  happy — I  pray  you  will  be  happy.  Yes, 
though  I  am  not  given  to  uttering  prayers,  I  pray, 
so*  dear  to  me  is  the  future  which  lies  before  you." 

"I  am  very  grateful,"  she  said  with  bowed  head. 
Something  in  his  broken,  disjointed  sentences 
brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes  and  made  her  voice 
unsteady.  She  knew  he  was  suffering — she  knew 
why,  and  her  heart  went  out  to  him  in  friendship 
and  womanly  pity. 

"You  need  not  be  grateful,"  he  answered.  "It 
is  I  who  have  to  be  grateful.  In  spite  of  it  all,  you 
do  not  know  what  good  you  have  brought  into  my 
life  nor  how  you  have  unconsciously  helped  me. 
I  shall  never  be  able  to  help  you  as  you  have  helped 
me — and  yet —  Will  you  promise  me  something?" 

"Anything  in  my  power,"  she  said  faintly. 

"It  is  not  much — only  this.     If  the  time  should 


122  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

ever  come  when  you  are  in  trouble,  if  you  should 
ever  be  in  need  of  a  true  and  devoted  friend,  will 
you  turn  to  me?  Will  you  let  me  try  to  pay  my 
debt  of  gratitude  to  you?" 

She  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  him  with  tear- 
dimmed  eyes.  Every  good  woman  sympathizes  with 
those  whose  suffering  she  has  inadvertently  caused, 
and  in  that  moment  Lois  would  have  done  anything 
to  alleviate  Travers'  pain. 

"If  it  should  ever  be  necessary,  I  will  turn  to 
you,"  she  said  gently.  "I  promise  you." 

"Thank  you!"  he  said,  and,  taking  her  out- 
stretched hand,  raised  it  reverently  to  his  lips. 


CHAPTER  X 

AT  THE  GATES  OF  A  GREAT  PEOPLE 

ALTHOUGH  Travers  lost  no  time  in  setting  to 
work  on  the  task  of  calling  a  new  and  suitable  club- 
house into  existence,  he  realized  immediately  that, 
do  what  he  would,  he  could  not  hope  for  comple- 
tion before  the  lapse  of  a  considerable  time,  and 
this  period  of  waiting  did  not  suit  his  plans.  Al- 
ready on  the  day  after  the  Rajah's  reception  he  had 
arranged  for  a  return  of  hospitality  which  was  to 
take  place  in  his  own  grounds  and  to  be  on  an  un- 
usually magnificent  scale.  The  European  popula- 
tion of  Marut  shrugged  its  shoulders  as  it  saw  the 
preparations,  and  observed  that  if  Travers  had  been 
as  generous  in  the  first  place  there  would  never 
have  been  any  need  to  have  sought  for  support  from 
a  foreign  quarter — at  which  criticism  Travers  mere- 
ly smiled.  The  club-house  was,  after  all,  only  a 
means  to  a  very  much  more  important  end  of  his 
own. 

Rajah  Nehal  Singh  of  course  accepted  the  invita- 
tion sent  him,  and  scarcely  a  week  passed  before 
the  eventful  evening  arrived  toward  which  more 
than  one  looked  forward  with  eager  anticipation — 
not  least  Mrs.  Gary,  who  saw  in  every  large  enter- 
tainment a  fresh  opportunity  for  Beatrice  to  carry 
QUt  her  own  particular  campaign.  It  was  therefore, 

123 


124  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

as  Mrs.  Gary  angrily  declared,  a  fresh  dispensation 
of  an  unfriendly  Providence  that  on  the  very  same 
day  Beatrice  fell  ill.  What  malady  had  her  in  its 
clutches  was  more  than  her  distracted  and  ag- 
grieved mother  could  say.  She  sat  before  her 
writing-table,  playing  idly  with  a  curiously  cut 
stone,  and  appeared  the  picture  of  health.  Yet  she 
was  ill — she  repeated  it  obstinately  and  without 
variation  a  dozen  times  in  response  to  Mrs.  Gary's 
persistent  protests. 

"You  don't  look  ill,"  Mrs.  Gary  exclaimed  in  ex- 
asperation as,  arrayed  in  her  newest  wonder  from 
Paris,  she  came  to  say  good-by.  "I  can't  think  what's 
the  matter  with  you,  and  you  won't  explain.  Have 
you  got  a  pain  anywhere? — Have  you  a  headache? 
For  goodness'  sake,  say  something,  child !" 

Beatrice  looked  at  her  mother  calmly,  and  a  curi- 
ous mixture  of  bitterness  and  amusement  crept 
into  her  expression  as  her  eyes  wandered  over  the 
bulk  in  mauve  satin  to  the  red  face  with  the  indig- 
nant little  eyes. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  say?"  she  asked.  "I 
can't  explain  pains  I  haven't  got." 

"If  you  haven't  got  any  pains,  then  you  aren't 
ill." 

Beatrice  laughed. 

"That  shows  how  ignorant  you  are  of  the  human 
constitution,  my  dear  mother,"  she  said.  "The  worst 
illnesses  are  painless — at  least,  in  your  sense  of  the 
word." 

"I  am  not  so  ignorant  as  not  to  know  one  thing 
— and  that  is  you  are  simply  shamming!"  burst  out 
the  elder  woman,  with  a  vicious  tug  at  her  straining 


GATES  OF  A  GREAT  PEOPLE    125 

gloves.  "Shamming  just  to  aggravate  me,  too !  You 
do  it  to  spite  me.  You  are  a  bad  daughter — " 

Beatrice  turned  round  so  sharply  that  Mrs.  Gary 
broke  off  in  the  middle  of  her  abuse  with  a  gasp. 

"I  do  nothing  to  aggravate  or  spite  you,"  Beatrice 
said,  with  a  calm  which  her  eyes  belied.  "I  have 
never  gone  against  you  in  the  whole  course  of  my 
life.  What  have  I  done  since  we  have  been  here 
but  play  an  obedient  fiddle  to  Mr.  Travers'  will,  in 

order  that  your  position  might  not  be  endangered 

» 

"Our  position,"  interposed  Mrs.  Gary  hurriedly. 

"No,  your  position.  There  may  have  been  a 
time  when  I  cared,  too,  but  I  don't  now.  I  have 
ceased  caring  for  anything.  To  suit  Mr.  Travers, 
I  have  fooled,  and  continue  to  fool,  a  man  who  has 
never  harmed  me  in  his  life.  I  move  heaven  and 
earth  to  come  between  two  people  for  whom  alone  in 
this  whole  place,  I  have  a  glimmer  of  respect." 

"Respect !"  jeered  Mrs.  Gary. 

"Yes,  respect — not  much,  I  confess,  but  still 
enough  to  have  made  me  leave  them  alone  if  I  had 
had  the  chance.  Lois  has  been  kind  to  me.  I  hap- 
pen to  know  that,  little  as  she  likes  me,  she  is  about 
the  only  one  in  the  Station  who  keeps  her  tongue 
from  slander  and — the  truth.  As  for  John  Stafford, 
if  he  is  a  narrow-minded  bigot,  he  is  at  least  a  man, 
and  that  is  something  to  appreciate." 

"That  is  just  what  I  think !"  Mrs.  Gary  said  con- 
ciliatingly.  "And  therefore  he  is  the  very  husband 
for  you,  dear  child." 

"You  think  so,  not  because  he  is  a  man,  but  be- 
cause he  has  a  position  in  which  it  would  suit  you 


126  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

excellently  to  have  a  son-in-law.  Well,  I  have 
promised  to  do  my  best,  though  I  am  convinced 
it  is  too  late." 

"There  is  no  official  engagement  between  them," 
Mrs.  Gary  said  hopefully,  "and  you  know  your 
power,  Beaty.  He  already  likes  you  more  than 
enough,  and  what  with  Mr.  Travers  on  the  other 
side —  All  the  same,"  she  continued,  becoming  sud- 
denly petulant,  "it's  too  bad  of  you  to  throw  away 
a  chance  like  this." 

Beatrice  covered  her  face  with  her  hand  with  a 
gesture  of  complete  weariness. 

"I  have  promised  to  do  my  best,"  she  reiterated. 
"Let  me  do  it  my  own  way.  I  can  not  go  to-night — • 
I  feel  I  can  not.  If  I  went,  it  would  only  be  a  failure. 
Let  me  for  once  be  judge  of  what  is  best." 

Her  mother  sighed  resignedly. 

"Very  well.  I  suppose  I  can't  force  you.  You 
can  be  as  obstinate  as  a  mule  when  you  choose.  I 
only  hope  you  won't  live  to  regret  it.  Good  night." 

This  time  she  did  not  give  her  daughter  the  usual 
perfunctory  and  barely  tolerated  kiss.  At  the  bot- 
tom of  her  torpid,  selfish  soul  she  was  bitterly  hurt 
and  disappointed,  as  those  people  always  are  who 
have  hurt  and  disappointed  others  their  whole  lives, 
and  only  a  glimmer  of  hope  that  Beatrice's  deter- 
mination might  have  softened  made  her  hesitate 
at  the  door  and  glance  back.  Beatrice  sat  just  as 
she  had  sat  the  whole  evening,  in  an  attitude  of 
moody  thought,  her  fingers  still  playing  with  the 
blood-red  ruby,  and  Mrs.  Gary  went  out,  slamming 
the  door  violently  after  her. 

In  consequence  of  her  long  and  futile  appeal,  Mrs. 


GATES  OF  A  GREAT  PEOPLE    127 

Gary  had  made  herself  very  late,  and  when  she  en- 
tered the  large  marquee  which  Travers  had  had 
erected  in  his  garden  she  found  that  all  the  guests 
had  arrived,  including  Rajah  Nehal  Singh  himself. 
He  stood  facing  the  entrance,  and  she  felt,  with  a 
consoling  sense  of  spiteful  triumph,  how  his  glance 
hurried  past  her,  seeking  the  figure  which  no  doubt 
above  all  else  had  tempted  him  thither. 

The  senior  lady,  Mrs.  Carmichael,  was  at  his 
side,  and  as  Mrs.  Gary  in  duty  bound  went  up  to 
pay  her  respects,  she  added  satisfaction  to  satisfac- 
tion by  relating  loudly  that  her  daughter  had  a 
slight  headache  which  she  had  not  thought  it  worth 
while  to  increase  by  a  form  of  entertainment  which, 
between  you  and  me,  dear  Mrs.  Carmichael,  bad 
taste  as  it  no  doubt  is,  has  no  attractions  for  Bea- 
trice. Now,  anything  outdoor,  and  nothing  will 
keep  her  from  it !  She  turned  to  Stafford,  who  was 
standing  with  Lois  close  at  hand.  "That  reminds 
me  to  tell  you,  Captain,  how  tremendously  my  daughter 
enjoyed  her  ride  with  you  yesterday.  If  you  promise 
not  to  get  conceited,  I  will  tell  you  what  she  said." 

"I  promise !"  he  said,  with  a  mock  gravity  which 
concealed  a  very  real  amusement. 

"She  said  that  in  her  opinion  there  wasn't  a  better 
horseman  in  Marut,  and  that  it  was  more  pleasure 
to  ride  with  you  than  any  one  else.  Now,  are  you 
keeping  your  promise?"  She  tapped  him  playfully 
on  the  arm.  Stafford  bowed,  looking  what  he  felt, 
hot  and  uncomfortable.  There  are  some  people 
who  have  the  knack  of  making  others  ashamed  of 
them  and  of  themselves.  Mrs.  Gary  was  just  such 
a  person. 


J28  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

"It  was  very  kind  of  Miss  Gary  to  say  so,"  Staf- 
ford said  stiffly.  "I  am  afraid  her  praise  is  not 
justified." 

All  this  time  Nehal  Singh  had  been  standing  at 
Mrs.  Gary's  elbow,  and  she  had  persistently  ignored 
him.  Deeper  than  her  reverence  for  any  form  of 
title  was  her  wounded  conviction  that  he  had  once 
laughed  at  her  and  made  her  ridiculous,  and  to  this 
injury  was  added  the  insult  that  it  came  from  a 
man  whom,  as  an  Englishwoman,  she  had  the  priv- 
ilege of  "tolerating."  A  true  parvenu,  she  had 
quickly  learned  to  suspect  and  despise  the  credentials 
of  other  intruders. 

He  turned  away  from  her  and  for  the  first  time 
there  was  something  hesitating  and  troubled  in  his 
manner.  Hitherto  there  had  been  songs  and  music 
for  his  entertainment;  it  was  now  the  turn  of  the 
Europeans  to  follow  their  usual  form  of  pleasure, 
yet  they  looked  at  one  another  questioningly.  It  was 
the  custom  of  the  chief  guest  of  the  evening  to  open 
the  dancing,  but  this  could  hardly  be  expected  of  a 
native  prince  who  was  as  yet  ignorant  of  such  things 
and  who  must  still  be  bound  and  fettered  by  caste  and 
religion. 

The  pause  of  uncertainty  lasted  only  a  moment, 
but  for  those  at  least  whose  eyes  were  open,  it  was 
a  moment  symbolical  of  a  great  loneliness.  In  the 
midst  of  a  gay  and  crowded  world  of  people,  linked 
together  by  a  common  tie  of  blood,  Nehal  Singh 
stood  isolated.  He  did  not  know  it,  but  it  was  that 
loneliness  which  cast  a  transitory  chill  upon  his 
enthusiasm  and  made  him  draw  himself  stiffly  up- 
right and  face  the  hundred  questioning  eyes  with 


GATES  OF  A  GREAT  PEOPLE     129 

a  new  hauteur.  An  instant  and  it  was  gone — that  il- 
luminating flash  vanished,  like  a  line  drawn  across 
a  quicksand,  beneath  the  surface,  never  to  be  seen 
again,  perhaps  never  even  to  be  remembered. 

Stafford  led  Lois  out  into  the  center,  and  one 
pair  after  another  followed  his  example.  With 
Travers  still  at  his  side,  the  Rajah  drew  back  from 
the  now  crowded  floor  of  dancers,  and  watched  the 
scene  with  glistening,  eager  eyes,  happy  at  last  to 
be  in  the  midst  of  them — the  Great  People  of  the 
world.  It  was  a  brilliant  scene,  for  Travers  had 
spared  nothing.  The  sides  of  the  marquee  banked 
with  flowers,  the  music,  the  brilliant  dresses  and 
uniforms,  were  all  calculated  to  impress  a  mind  as 
yet  curiously  unspoiled  by  the  pomp  and  magnifi- 
cence of  the  East.  They  impressed  Nehal  Singh 
deeply ;  his  mind  was  filled  with  a  wonder  and  pleas- 
ure which  did  something  toward  soothing  the  first 
bitter  disappointment  that  the  evening  had  brought 
him. 

But  above  all  else,  he  wondered  at  himself  and  the 
rapidity  of  the  fate  which  in  two  short  weeks  had 
swept  him  out  of  his  solitude  into  the  very  vortex 
of  a  world  unknown  to  him  save  through  his  books. 
He  asked  himself  what  power  it  was  that  had  flung 
aside  caste,  religion,  education,  like  a  child's  sand- 
castle  before  the  onrush  of  a  mighty  tide.  Caste, 
religion,  hatred  of  the  foreigner,  these  things  had 
been  sown  deep  into  him,  had  been  fostered  and 
trained  like  precious  plants,  and  now  they  were 
dead  at  the  first  contact  with  European  ideas.  They 
were  gone  as  though  they  had  never  been.  He  had 
made  no  resistance.  He  had  drifted  with  the  stream, 


130  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

regardless  of  the  entreating,  threatening  hands  held 
out  to  him;  yielding  to  a  divine  power  stronger  than 
himself,  stronger  far  than  the  implanted  principles  of 
his  life. 

His  wonder,  though  he  did  not  know  it,  was 
shared  by  the  Englishman  at  his  side.  Travers,  ac- 
customed as  he  was  to  look  upon  human  theories 
and  principles  as  buyable  and  saleable  appendages, 
could  not  suppress  a  mild  surprise  at  the  rapidity 
with  which  this  Hindu  prince  had  assimilated  the 
ideas  and  mental  attitude  of  another  hemisphere. 
Possibly  it  could  be  traced  back  to  the  parrot-like 
propensities  of  all  inferior  races,  but  Travers,  much 
as  the  solution  appealed  to  him,  could  not  accept  it. 
A  parrot  that  assumes  with  apparent  ease  the  ways 
of  his  master  within  a  fortnight,  and  thereby  retains 
a  striking  originality  of  his  own,  is  not  an  ordinary 
parrot,  and  the  conviction  was  dawning  on  Travers 
that  Nehal  Singh  was  not  an  ordinary  Hindu.  The 
unusual  simplicity  of  his  dress,  which  nevertheless 
concealed  a  costly  and  refined  taste,  his  firm  though 
unpretentious  bearing,  the  energy  with  which  he 
had  overthrown  what  Travers  guessed  must  have 
been  a  fairly  violent  opposition  on  the  part  of  his 
priestly  advisers,  pointed  to  a  decided,  interesting 
and  perhaps,  under  certain  circumstances,  danger- 
ous personality.  The  latter  part  of  this  deduction 
had  not  as  yet  struck  Travers  in  its  full  force,  but 
so  much  he  at  least  felt  that  he  proceeded  to  go 
warily,  relying  on  his  diplomacy  and  still  more  on 
a  weapon  which  was  not  the  less  effective  for  being 
kept,  as  on  this  occasion,  in  the  background. 

"Rajah   Sahib,  this  is  our  second  meeting,"  he 


GATES  OF  A  GREAT  PEOPLE     131 

said,  after  a  few  minutes'  study  of  the  handsome 
absorbed  face.  "I  have  my  answer  ready." 

Nehal  Singh  turned  at  once,  as  though  he  had 
been  waiting  for  Travers  to  broach  the  subject. 

"You  have  not  forgotten,  then?" 

"Forgotten?  No;  it  lent  itself  too  easily  to  my 
fancy  and  secret  ambition  for  me  to  forget.  Doubt- 
less, though,  my  answer  will  not  appeal  to  you, 
for  it  is  the  answer  of  a  business  man  with  a  busi- 
ness hobby  of  immense  proportions  and  of  the  earth 
earthy." 

"Nevertheless,  tell  it  to  me,"  Nehal  Singh  said, 
looking  about  him  ar  plough  seeking  a  way  out  of 
the  noise  and  confusion.  "Whatever  it  is,  it  will 
Yriterest  me  so  long  as  it  has  one  object." 

"I  venture  to  think  I  know  that  object,"  was 
Travers'  mental  comment  as  he  led  the  way  into 
the  second  division  of  the  marquee. 

The  place  had  been  laid  out  as  a  refreshment 
room,  with  small,  prettily  decorated  tables,  and 
was  for  the  moment  empty,  save  for  a  few  busy 
native  servants.  An  electric  globe  hung  from  the 
ceiling,  and  immediately  beneath  its  brilliant  light 
Travers  came  to  a  standstill.  He  put  his  hand  in 
his  pocket  and  drew  out  what  seemed  to  be  a  jewel- 
case,  which  he  opened  and  handed  to  the  Rajah. 

"Before  I  say  anything  further,  I  want  you  to 
look  at  that  and  give  me  your  opinion,  Rajah  Sahib," 
he  said.  "I  will  then  proceed." 

Nehal  Singh  took  the  small  white  stone  from 
the  case  and  studied  it  intently.  He  held  it  to  the 
light,  and  it  flashed  back  at  him  a  hundred  brilliant 
colors.  He  smiled  with  the  pleasure  of  a  connoisseur. 


132  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"It  is  a  diamond,"  he  said,  "a  beautiful  diamond. 
Though  smaller,  it  must  surely  equal  the  one  I 
wear  in  my  turban." 

"You  confirm  my  opinion  and  the  opinion  of  all 
experts,"  Travers  answered  enthusiastically,  "and 
I  will  confess  to  you  that  it  is  that  stone  which  has 
prolonged  my  stay  indefinitely  at  Marut.  About 
a  year  ago  a  friend  of  mine,  an  engineer,  who  was 
engaged  on  some  government  work  at  the  river, 
had  occasion  to  make  excavations  about  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  from  the  Bazaar.  He  happened  to  come 
across  this  stone,  and  being  something  of  an  ex- 
pert, he  recognized  it — and  held  his  tongue.  When 
he  came  south  again  to  Madras,  he  confided  hi.  discov- 
ery to  me,  and,  impressed  by  his  story,  and  the 
stone,  I  sent  a  mining  engineer  to  Marut  to  make 
secret  investigations.  I  received  his  report  six 
months  ago." 

Nehal  Singh  replaced  the  stone  slowly  in  its  case. 

"What  did  he  say?"  he  asked. 

"He  reported  that  there  were  sure  and  certain 
signs  that  the  whole  of  the  Bazaar  is  built  upon  a 
diamond  field  of  unusual  proportions,  which,  un- 
like other  Indian  mining  enterprises,  was  likely  to 
repay,  doubly  repay,  exploitation.  I  immediately 
came  to  Marut,  and  found  that  the  Bazaar  was  en- 
tirely your  property,  Rajah  Sahib,  and  that  you 
were  not  likely  to  be  influenced  by  any  representa- 
tions. Nevertheless  I  remained,  experimenting  and 
investigating,  above  all  hoping  that  some  chance 
would  lead  me  in  your  way.  Destiny,  as  you  see, 
Rajah  Sahib,  has  spoken  the  approving  word." 

Nehal  Singh  sighed  as  he  handed  the  case  back, 


GATES  OF  A  GREAT  PEOPLE    133 

and  the  sigh  expressed  a  rather  weary  disappoint- 
ment. 

"I  have  stones  enough  and  wealth  enough,"  he 
said.  "I  have  no  need  of  more." 

"It  was  not  of  you  I  was  thinking,  Rajah  Sahib," 
Travers  returned. 

"Of  whom,  then?" 

"Of  myself,  to  some  extent,  as  becomes  a  busi- 
ness man,  but  also,  and  I  venture  to  assert  princi- 
pally, of  the  general  welfare  of  your  country  and 
people." 

"I  fear  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"And  yet,  Rajah  Sahib,  you  have  read,  and  have 
no  doubt  been  able  to  trace  through  history  the 
source  of  prosperity  and  misfortune  among  the  na- 
tions. The  curse  of  India  is  her  overpopulation 
and  the  inability  of  her  people  to  extract  from  the 
earth  sufficient  means  for  existence.  If  I  may  say 
so,  the  ordinary  native  is  a  dreamer  who  prefers 
to  starve  on  a  treasure  hoard  rather  than  bestir 
himself  to  unbury  it.  Lack  of  energy,  lack  of  initia- 
tive, lack  of  opportunity,  lack  also  of  guides  have 
made  your  subjects  suffering  idlers  whose  very  ex- 
istence is  a  curse  to  themselves  and  an  unsolved 
problem  for  others.  Charity  can  not  help  them — 
that  enervating  poison  has  already  done  enough 
mischief.  You  could  fling  away  your  whole  for- 
tune on  your  state,  and  leave  it  with  no  improve- 
ment. The  cure,  if  cure  there  be,  lies  in  the  awaken- 
ing of  a  sense  of  independence  and  ambition  and 
self-respect.  Only  work  can  do  this,  only  work 
can  transform  them  from  beggars  into  honorable, 
self-supporting  members  of  the  Empire ;  and  the 


134  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

crying  misery  of  the  present  time  calls  upon  you, 
Rajah  Sahib,  to  rouse  them  to  their  new  task!" 

He  had  spoken  with  an  enthusiasm  which  grew 
in  measure  as  he  saw  its  effect  upon  his  hearer. 
For  though  he  did  not  immediately  respond,  Nehal 
Singh's  face  had  betrayed  emotions  which  a  natural 
dignity  was  learning  to  hold  back  from  impulsive 
expression.  He  answered  at  last  quietly,  but  with 
an  irrepressible  undercurrent  of  eagerness. 

"You  speak  convincingly,"  he  said;  "and  though 
I  fear  you  overrate  the  hidden  powers  of  activity 
in  my  people,  you  have  made  me  still  more  anxious 
for  a  direct  answer  to  my  question — what  would 
you  do  in  my  place?" 

"If  I  had  the  money  and  the  power,  I  would 
sweep  the  Bazaar,  with  all  its  dirt  and  disease,  out 
of  existence,"  Travers  answered  energetically.  "I 
would  build  up  a  new  native  quarter  outside  Marut, 
and  enforce  order  and  cleanliness.  Where  the  pres- 
ent Bazaar  stands,  I  would  open  out  a  mine,  and 
with  the  help  of  European  experts  encourage  the 
natives  into  the  subsequent  employment  which 
would  stand  open  to  them.  In  a  short  time  a  mere 
military  Station  would  become  the  center  of  native  in- 
dustry and  commercial  prosperity." 

A  faint  skeptical  smile  played  around  Nehal  Singh's 
mouth,  but  his  eyes  were  still  profoundly  grave. 

"If  I  know  my  people,  I  fear  they  will  revolt 
against  such  changes,"  he  said.  "You  have  de- 
scribed them  as  dreamers  who  prefer  starvation  to 
effort — such  they  are." 

"Your  influence  would  be  irresistible,  Rajah  Sa- 
hib." 


GATES  OF  A  GREAT  PEOPLE    135 

Nehal  Singh  looked  at  Travers  keenly.  For  the 
second  time  he  had  been  spoken  of  as  a  power.  Was 
it  perhaps  true,  as  his  father  had  said,  and  this 
cool  Englishman  had  said,  that  the  thoughts  and 
actions  of  more  than  a  million  people  lay  at  his 
command?  If  so,  the  twenty-five  years  of  his  life 
had  been  wasted,  and  he  stood  far  below  the  high 
standard  which  had  been  set  him.  He  had  wan- 
dered aimlessly  along  a  smooth  path,  cut  off  from 
the  world,  plucking  such  fruits  and  flowers  as  of- 
fered themselves  within  his  reach,  deaf  to  the  cries 
of  those  to  whom  his  highest  efforts  should  have 
been  dedicated.  He  had  dreamed  where  he  should 
have  acted,  slept  where  he  should  have  watched  and 
labored  unceasingly,  yet  it  was  not  too  late.  He 
felt  how  his  whole  dream-world  shivered  beneath 
the  convulsions  of  his  awakening  energies.  The 
vague,  futile,  uneasy  longings  of  his  immaturity 
took  definite  shape.  His  shackled  abilities  awaited 
only  the  signal  to  throw  off  their  fetters  and  in 
freedom  to  create  good  for  the  whole  world. 

"You  have  shown  me  possibilities  of  which  I  never 
dreamed,"  he  said  to  Travers.  "I  must  speak  to  you 
again,  and  soon,  for  if  things  are  as  you  say,  then  time 
enough  has  been  wasted.  But  not  to-night.  To-mor- 
row I  will  see  you — or  no,  not  to-morrow — the  day 
after.  I  must  have  time  to  think." 

The  waltz  had  died  sentimentally  into  silence, 
and  he  made  a  gesture  indicating  that  he  wished  to 
return  to  the  ball-room.  Yet  on  the  threshold  he  hesi- 
tated and  drew  back. 

"The  light  and  confusion  trouble  me,"  he  said, 
passing  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  "and  my  mind  is 


136  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

full  of  new  thoughts.  If  you  will  permit,  I  will 
take  my  leave.  My  servants  are  waiting  outside, 
and  if  you  will  carry  my  thanks  to  my  other  hosts, 
I  should  prefer  to  go  unnoticed." 

"It  is  as  you  wish,  Rajah  Sahib,"  Travers  re- 
turned. "It  is  we  who  have  to  thank  you  for  par- 
taking of  our  poor  hospitality." 

"You  have  given  me  more  than  hospitality,"  Ne- 
hal  Singh  interposed.  Then  he  lifted  his  hand  in 
salute.  "In  two  days  I  shall  expect  you." 

"In  two  days." 

Travers  watched  the  tall,  white-clad  figure  pass 
out  of  the  brightly  lighted  tent  into  the  darkness.  From 
beginning  to  end,  his  plans  had  been  crowned  with 
unhoped-for  success,  and  yet  he  was  puzzled. 

"I  wonder  why  in  two  days?"  he  thought.  "Why 
not  to-morrow?  I  wonder  if  by  any  chance — !"  He 
broke  off  with  a  smothered  laugh.  "It  is  just  pos- 
sible. I'll  make  sure  and  send  her  a  line." 

Then,  as  the  band  began  the  first  bars  of  a  sec- 
ond waltz,  he  hurried  back  into  the  crowded  room 
in  time  to  forestall  Stafford  at  Lois'  side. 


CHAPTER  XI 

WITHIN    THE    GATES 

NEHAL  SINGH'S  servants  stood  with  the  horses 
outside  Travers'  compound  and  waited.  Their  mas- 
ter did  not  disturb  them.  Glad  as  he  was  to  get 
away  from  the  crowd  of  strangers  and  the  dazzling 
lights  and  colors,  it  still  pleased  him  to  be  within 
hearing  of  the  music  which,  softened  by  the  dis- 
tance, exercised  a  melancholy  yet  soothing  influ- 
ence upon  his  disturbed  mind.  For  the  dreamy 
peace  had  gone  for  ever — as  indeed  it  must  be  when 
the  soul  of  man  is  roughly  shaken  into  living,  pul- 
sating life,  and  he  fevered  with  a  hundred  as  yet 
disordered  hopes  and  ambitions.  To  be  a  benefactor 
to  his  people  and  to  all  mankind,  to  be  the  first  pio- 
neer of  his  race  in  the  search  after  civilization  and 
culture — these  had  been  the  dreams  of  his  hitherto 
wasted  life,  only  he  had  never  recognized  them, 
never  understood  whither  the  restless  impulses 
were  driving  him.  It  had  needed  the  pure  soul  of  a 
good  woman  to  unlock  the  best  from  his  own;  it 
had  needed  the  genius  of  a  clear  brain  to  harness 
the  untrained  faculties  to  some  definite  aim.  The 
soul  of  a  woman  had  come  and  had  planted  upon 
him  the  purity  of  her  high  ideal ;  the  genius  had  al- 
ready shot  its  first  illuminating  ray  into  his  dark- 
ness. Henceforth  the  watchword  for  them  all  was 

137 


138  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

to  be  "Forward,"  and  Nehal  Singh,  standing  like  a 
white  ghost  in  the  deserted  compound,  shaken  by 
the  force  of  his  own  emotions,  intoxicated  by  his 
own  happiness  and  the  shining  future  which  spread 
itself  before  his  eyes,  sent  up  a  prayer  such  as  rare- 
ly ascends  from  earth  to  Heaven.  To  whom?  Not 
to  Brahma.  His  mind  had  burst  like  a  raging  tide 
over  the  flood-gates  of  caste  and  creed  and  embraced 
the  whole  world  and  the  one  God  who  has  no  name, 
no  creed,  no  dogma,  but  whom  in  that  moment  he  rec- 
ognized in  great  thanksgiving  as  the  Universal  Father. 

Thus  far  had  Nehal  Singh  traveled  in  two  short 
weeks — guided  by  a  woman  who  had  no  God  and 
a  man  who  had  no  God  save  his  own  ends.  But 
he  did  not  know  this.  As  he  began  to  pace  slowly 
backward  and  forward,  listening  to  the  distant  music, 
he  thought  of  her,  and  measured  himself  with  her  ideal 
in  a  humility  which  did  not  reject  hope.  One  day  he 
would  be  able  to  stand  before  her  and  say,  "Thus  far 
have  I  worked  and  striven  for  inner  worth  and  for  the 
good  of  my  brothers.  I  have  kept  myself  pure  and 
honest,  I  have  cultivated  in  myself  the  best  I  have,  and 
have  been  inexorable  against  the  evil.  Thus  much 
have  I  attained." 

Further  than  that  triumphant  moment  he  did  not 
think,  but  he  thanked  God  for  the  ideal  which  had 
been  set  him — the  Great  People's  ideal  of  a  man — and 
for  the  afterward  which  he  knew  must  come. 

Thus  absorbed  in  his  own  reflections,  he  reached 
Travers'  bungalow,  and  a  ray  of  light  falling  across 
his  path,  brought  him  sharply  back  to  the  present 
reality.  He  looked  up  and  saw  that  a  table  had 
been  pulled  out  on  to  the  verandah,  and  that  four  offi- 


WITHIN  THE  GATES  139 

cers  sat  round  it,  playing  cards  by  the  light  of  a 
lamp.  At  Marut  there  was  always  a  heavy  super- 
fluity of  men,  and  these  four,  doubtless  weary  of 
standing  uselessly  about,  had  made  good  their  es- 
cape to  enjoy  themselves  in  their  own  way.  Nehal 
Singh  hesitated.  He  felt  a  strong  desire  to  go  up 
and  join  them,  to  learn  to  know  them  outside  the 
enervating,  leveling  atmosphere  of  social  intercourse 
where  each  is  forced  to  keep  his  real  individuality  hid- 
den behind  a  wall  of  phrases.  Now,  no  doubt,  they 
would  show  themselves  openly  to  him  as  they  were ; 
they  would  admit  him  into  the  circle  of  their  intimate 
life,  and  teach  him  the  secret  of  the  greatness  which 
had  carried  their  flag  to  the  four  corners  of  the  earth. 
Yet  he  hesitated  to  make  his  presence  known.  The 
study  of  the  four  faces,  unconscious  of  his  scrutiny, 
absorbed  him. 

The  two  elder  men  were  known  to  him,  although 
their  names  were  forgotten.  Their  fair  hair,  regu- 
lar, somewhat  cold,  features  led  him  to  suppose 
that  they  were  brothers.  The  other  two  were  con- 
siderably younger — they  seemed  to  Nehal  Singh 
almost  boys,  though  in  all  probability  they  were 
his  own  age.  One  especially  interested  him.  He 
was  a  good-looking  young  fellow,  with  pleasant  if 
somewhat  effeminate  features  and  a  healthy  skin 
bronzed  with  the  Indian  sun.  He  sat  directly  op- 
posite where  Nehal  Singh  stood  in  the  shadow,  and 
when  he  shifted  his  cards,  as  he  often  did  in  a  rest- 
less, uneasy  way,  he  gave  the  unseen  watcher  an 
opportunity  to  study  every  line  of  his  set  face. 

Nehal  Singh  wondered  at  his  expression.  The  others 
were  grave  with  the  gravity  of  indifference,  but 


HO  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

this  boy  had  his  teeth  set,  and  something  in  his 
eyes  reminded  Nehal  Singh  of  a  dog  he  had  once 
seen  confronted  suddenly  with  an  infuriated  rattle- 
snake. It  was  the  expression  of  hypnotized  fear  which 
held  him  back  from  intruding  himself  upon  them,  and 
he  was  about  to  retrace  his  steps  quietly  when  the 
man  who  was  seated  next  the  balustrade  turned  and 
glanced  so  directly  toward  him  that  Nehal  Singh 
thought  his  presence  was  discovered.  The  officer's 
next  words  showed,  however,  that  his  gaze  had  passed 
over  Nehal  Singh's  head  to  the  brightly  lighted  mar- 
quee on  the  other  side  of  the  compound. 

"I'm  glad  to  be  out  of  that  crush,"  Captain  Webb 
said,  as  he  lazily  gathered  up  his  cards.  "Fear- 
fully rotten  show  I  call  it — not  a  pretty  girl  among 
the  lot,  and  a  heat  enough  to  make  the  devil  envi- 
ous !  I  can't  think  what  induced  our  respected  Na- 
poleon to  make  such  a  fool  of  himself." 

"Napoleon  hasn't  made  a  fool  of  himself,  you  can 
make  yourself  easy  on  that  score,"  Saunders  re- 
torted. "Napoleon  knows  on  which  side  of  the  bread  his 
butter  lies,  even  if  you  don't.  When  he  dances  at- 
tendance on  any  one,  you  can  take  it  on  trust  that 
the  butter  isn't  far  off.  No,  no ;  I've  a  great  rever- 
ence for  Nappy's  genius." 

"It's  an  infernally  undignified  proceeding,  any- 
how," Webb  went  on.  "I'm  beginning  to  see  that 
old  Stafford  wasn't  so  far  wrong.  What  do  we 
want  with  the  fellow?  All  this  kowtowing  will  go  to 
his  head  and  make  him  as  'uppish'  as  the  rest  of  'em. 
He's  conceited  enough,  already,  aping  us  as  though  he 
had  been  at  it  all  his  life." 

"That's  the  mistake  we  English  are  always  mak- 


WITHIN  THE  GATES  141 

ing,"  grumbled  Saunders,  as  he  played  out.  "We 
are  too  familiar.  We  swallow  anything  for  diplo- 
macy's sake,  even  if  it  hasn't  got  so  much  as  a  coat- 
ing of  varnish.  We  pull  these  fellows  up  to  our 
level  and  pamper  them  as  though  they  were  our 
equals,  and  then  when  they  find  we  won't  go  the 
whole  hog,  they  turn  nasty  and  there's  the  devil  to 
pay.  In  this  case  I  didn't  mind  so  long  as  he  kept  his 
place,  but  then  that's  what  they  never  do.  That's  our 
rubber,  I  think.  Shall  we  stop?" 

"I've  had  enough,  anyhow,"  his  vis-a-vis  answered. 
"Add  up  the  dem  total,  will  you,  there's  a  good  fellow. 
I  must  be  getting  home.  There's  that  boring  parade 
to-morrow  at  five  again,  and  I've  got  a  headache  that 
will  last  me  a  week,  thanks  to  Nappy's  bad  champagne. 
Well,  what's  the  damage?" 

The  young  fellow  who  had  sat  with  his  head 
bowed  over  his  cards  looked  up  with  a  sickly  smile. 

"Yes,  what's  the  damage?"  he  said.  "I  can't  be 
bothered — I've  lost  count.  You  and  I  must  have 
done  pretty  badly,  Phipps." 

"I  dare  say  we  shall  survive,"  his  partner  rejoined 
carelessly.  "We  have  lost  five  rubbers.  How  does 
that  work  out,  Webb?" 

"I'll  trouble  you  for  a  hundred  each,"  Webb  an- 
swered, after  a  minute's  calculation.  "Quite  a  nice, 
profitable  evening  for  us,  eh,  Saunders.  Thanks, 
awfully,  old  fellow."  He  gathered  up  the  rupees 
which  the  boy's  partner  had  pushed  toward  him.  The 
boy  himself  sat  as  though  frozen  to  stone.  Only  when 
Saunders  gave  him  a  friendly  nudge,  he  started  and 
looked  about  him  as  though  he  had  been  awakened  out 
of  a  trance. 


142  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  stuttered ;  "you  and  Webb 
— would  you  mind  waiting  till  to-morrow?  I'll  raise 
it  somehow — I  haven't  got  so  much — " 

Phipps  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"You  silly  young  duffer!"  he  said.  "What  have 
you  been  doing  with  your  pocket  money,  eh?  Been 
buying  too  many  sweeties?" 

The  other  two  men  roared,  but  the  boy's  fea- 
tures never  relaxed. 

"I  tell  you  I  haven't  got  so  much  with  me,"  he 
mumbled.  "I'll  bring  it  to-morrow,  I  promise." 

Webb  rose  from  his  chair,  stretching  himself  lan- 
guidly. 

"All  right,"  he  agreed.  "To-morrow  will  do.  By 
Jove,  what  a  gorgeous  night  it  is !"  He  leaned  over 
the  balustrade,  lifting  his  aristocratic  face  to  the 
sky.  "Saunders,  you  don't  want  to  go  to  bed,  you 
old  cormorant.  Come  on  with  me,  and  we'll  spend 
the  night  hours  worthily." 

"I'm  game !"  Saunders  rejoined.  "That  is,  if  it's 
anything  decent.  I'm  not  going  to  do  any  more 
tar-worshipping,  that's  certain." 

"Don't  want  you  to.  I'm  going  to  dress  up  and 
have  a  run  around  the  Bazaar,  and  if  you  want  a 
little  excitement,  you  had  better  do  likewise.  You 
see  things  you  don't  see  in  the  daytime,  I  can  tell 
you,  and  some  of  the  women  aren't  bad.  Come  on ! 
We  can  run  round  to  my  diggings  and  change. 
Are  you  coming,  Phipps  and  Geoffries?" 

The  weedy  young  man  addressed  as  Phipps  rose 
with  alacrity. 

"Anything  for  a  change,"  he  said.  "Wake  up, 
Innocence!"  He  brought  his  hand  down  with  a 


WITHIN  THE  GATES  143 

friendly  thump  on  Geoffries'  shoulder,  but  the  boy 
shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said,  in  the  same  rough,  monotonous 
voice.  "I'm  done  for  to-night.  You  fellows  get 
on  without  me." 

"As  you  like.    Good  night." 

"Good  night." 

The  three  men  went  into  the  bungalow.  Grad- 
ually their  voices  died  away  in  the  distance,  but  the 
boy  never  moved,  never  shifted  his  blank  stare 
from  the  cards  in  front  of  him.  It  was  a  curious 
tableau.  In  the  midst  of  the  darkness  it  was  as 
though  a  lime-light  had  been  thrown  on  to  a  theat- 
rical representation  of  despair,  while  beneath,  hidden 
by  the  shadow,  a  lonely  spectator,  to  whom  the  scene 
was  a  horrible  revelation,  fought  out  a  hard  battle  be- 
tween indignation  and  disbelief. 

Throughout  the  conversation  Nehal  Singh  had 
stood  rigid,  his  hand  clenched  on  the  jeweled  hilt 
of  his  sword,  his  eyes  riveted  on  the  faces  of  the 
four  men  who  were  thus  unconsciously  drawing 
him  into  the  intimate  circle  of  their  life.  Much  that 
they  said  was  incomprehensible  to  him.  The  refer- 
ences to  "Napoleon"  and  to  the  unknown  individual 
contemptuously  dubbed  "the  fellow"  were  not  clear, 
but  they  left  him  a  gnawing  sense  of  insult  and 
scorn  which  he  could  not  conquer.  The  subsequent 
chink  of  money  changing  hands  had  jarred  upon 
his  ears — the  final  dispute  concerning  their  further 
pleasure  made  him  sick  with  disgust.  These  "gentle- 
men" sought  their  amusement  in  a  place  where  he 
would  have  scorned  to  set  his  foot. 

This  fact  obliterated  for  a  moment  every  other  con- 


144  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

sideration.  Was  it  to  these  that  his  hero-worship 
was  dedicated?  Were  these  the  men  from  whom 
he  was  to  learn  greatness  of  thought,  heroism  of 
action,  purity  in  life,  idealism — these  blatant,  coarse- 
worded,  coarse-minded  cynics  to  whom  duty  was  a 
"bore"  and  pleasure  an  excuse  to  plunge  into  the 
lowest  dregs  of  existence?  In  vain  his  young  en- 
thusiasm, his  almost  passionate  desire  to  honor 
greatness  in  others  fought  his  contemptuous  con- 
viction of  their  unworthiness.  Gradually,  it  is  true, 
he  grew  calmer,  and,  like  a  climber  who  has  been 
flung  from  a  high  peak,  gathered  himself  from  his 
fall,  ready  to  climb  again.  He  told  himself  that 
as  an  outsider  he  did  not  understand  either  the 
words  or  the  actions  which  he  had  heard  and  wit- 
nessed, that  he  judged  them  by  the  narrow  stand- 
ard of  a  life  spent  cut  off  from  the  practical  ways 
of  the  world.  He  repeated  to  himself  Beatrice 
Gary's  assurance — "All  men  do  not  carry  their  heart 
on  their  sleeve."  He  told  himself  that  behind  the 
jarring  flippancy  there  still  could  lurk  a  hidden 
depth  and  greatness.  Nevertheless  the  received 
impression  was  stronger  than  all  argument.  The 
climber,  apparently  unhurt,  had  sustained  a  vital 
injury. 

Nehal  Singh  was  about  to  turn  away,  desirous 
only  to  be  alone,  when  a  sound  fell  on  his  ears  which 
sent  a  sudden  sharp  thrill  through  his  troubled 
heart.  It  was  a  groan,  a  single,  half-smothered 
groan,  breaking  through  compressed  lips  by  the 
very  force  of  an  overpowering  misery.  Nehal 
looked  back.  The  blank  stare  was  gone,  the  boy 
lay  with  his  face  buried  in  his  arms. 


WITHIN  THE  GATES  145 

In  that  moment  the  dreamer  in  Nehal  died,  the 
man  of  instant,  impulsive  action  took  his  place.  He 
hurried  up  the  steps  of  the  verandah  and  laid  his 
hand  on  the  bowed  shoulder. 

"You  are  in  trouble,"  he  said.  "What  is  the  mat- 
ter?" 

As  though  he  had  been  struck  by  a  shock  of 
electricity,  Geoffries  half  sprang  to  his  feet,  and 
then,  as  he  saw  the  dark  face  so  close  to  his  own, 
he  sank  back  again,  speechless  and  white  to  the 
lips.  For  a  moment  the  two  men  looked  at  each 
other  in  unbroken  silence. 

"I  am  sorry  I  have  startled  you,"  Nehal  said  at 
length,  "but  I  could  not  see  you  in  such  distress.  I  do 
not  know  what  it  is,  but  if  you  will  confide  in  me,  I 
may  be  able  to  help  you." 

"Rajah  Sahib,"  stammered  the  young  fellow,  in 

helpless  confusion,  "if  I  had  known  you  were  there 
j> 

"You  would  not  have  revealed  your  trouble  to 
me?"  Nehal  finished,  with  a  faint  smile.  "And 
that,  I  think,  would  have  been  a  pity  for  us  both. 
If  I  can  help  you,  perhaps  you  can  help  me."  He 
paused  and  then  added  slowly :  "I  have  been  stand- 
ing watching  you  a  long  time." 

"A  long  time !"  A  curious  fear  crept  over  the 
boyish  face.  "You  saw  us  playing,  then — and  heard 
what  we  said?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  wish  to  help  me?" 

"If  I  can." 

Geoffries  turned  his  head  away,  avoiding  the  di- 
rect gaze. 


146  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"You  are  very  kind,  Rajah  Sahib.  I'm  afraid  I'm 
not  to  be  helped." 

The  sight  of  that  awkward  shame  and  misery 
drove  all  personal  grief  from  Nehal's  mind.  He 
drew  forward  a  chair  and  seated  himself  opposite 
his  companion,  clasping  his  sinewy,  well-shaped 
hands  on  the  table  before  him. 

""Let  us  try  and  put  all  formalities  aside,"  he 
said.  "If  you  can  treat  me  as  a  friend,  let  nothing 
prevent  you.  We  are  strangers  to  each  other,  but 
then  the  whole  world  is  stranger  to  me.  Yet  I 
would  be  glad  to  help  and  understand  the  world, 
as  I  would  be  glad  to  help  and  understand  you  if 
you  will  let  me." 

Geoffries  looked  shyly  at  this  strange  dens  ex 
machina,  troubled  by  perplexing  considerations. 
How  much  had  the  Rajah  heard  of  the  previous 
conversation,  how  much  had  he  understood?  Above 
all,  what  would  his  comrades  say  if  they  found  him 
pouring  out  his  heart  to  "this  fellow,"  who  had 
been  the  constant  butt  for  their  arrogant  contempt? 
And  yet,  as  often  happens,  amidst  his  many  friends 
he  was  intensely  alone.  There  was  no  single  one 
to  whom  he  could  turn  with  the  burden  of  his  con- 
science, no  one  to  whom  he  did  not  systematically 
play  himself  off  as  something  other  than  he  was. 
And  opposite  he  looked  into  a  face  full  of  grave 
sympathy,  not  unshadowed  with  personal  sadness. 
Yet  he  hesitated,  and  Nehal  Singh  went  on  thought- 
fully: 

"There  are  some  things  I  do  not  understand,"  he 
said.  "You  were  playing  some  game  for  money. 


WITHIN  THE  GATES  147 

I  have  heard  of  that  before,  but  I  do  not  under- 
stand. Are  you  then,  so  poor?" 

Geoffries  laughed  miserably. 

"I  am  now,"  he  said. 

"Then  it  is  money  that  is  the  trouble?" 

"It  always  is.  At  first  one  plays  for  the  fun  of 
the  thing  and  because — oh,  well,  one  has  to,  don't  you 
know.  Afterward,  one  plays  to  get  it  back." 

"But  you  have  not  got  it  back?" 

Geoffries  shook  his  head. 

"I  never  do,"  he  said.    "I'm  a  rotter  at  bridge." 

"A  hundred  rupees !"  Nehal  went  on  reflectively. 
"That  was  the  sum,  I  think?  It  is  very  little — not 
enough  to  cause  you  any  trouble." 

"Not  by  itself,"  Geoffries  agreed,  with  a  fresh 
collapse  into  his  old  depression.  "But  it  is  the  last 
straw.  I'm  cut  pretty  short  by  the  home  people, 
who  don't  understand,  and  there  are  other  things — 
polo  ponies,  dinner-races,  subscriptions — " 

"And  the  Bazaar." 

Geoffries  caught  his  breath  and  glanced  across 
at  the  stern,  unhappy  face.  He  read  there  in  an 
instant  a  pitying  contempt  which  at  first  seemed 
ridiculous,  and  then  insolent,  and  then  terrible.  Boy 
as  he  was,  there  flashed  through  his  easy-going 
brain  some  vague  unformed  recognition  of  the  un- 
shifting  national  responsibility  which  weighs  upon 
the  shoulders  of  the  greatest  and  the  least.  He 
understood,  though  not  clearly,  that  he  and  his  three 
Comrades  had  dragged  themselves  and  their  race 
in  the  mud  at  the  feet  of  a  foreigner,  and  with  that 
shock  of  understanding  came  the  desire  to  vindi- 


148  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

cate  himself  and  the  uncounted  millions  who  were 
linked  to  him. 

"You  think  badly  of  us,  Rajah  Sahib,"  he  said 
fiercely.  "Perhaps  you  have  a  right  to  do  so  from 
what  you  have  seen ;  but  you  have  not  seen  all — no, 
not  nearly  all.  You've  seen  us  in  the  soft  days 
when  we've  nothing  to  do  but  drill  recruits  and  while 
away  the  time  as  best  we  can.  Think  what  the 
monotony  means — day  after  day  the  same  work, 
the  same  faces.  Who  can  blame  us  if  we  get  slack 
and  ready  to  do  anything  for  a  change?  I  know 
some  of  us  are  rotters — especially  here  in  Marut. 
Most  of  us  belong  to  the  British  Regiment,  and  are 
accustomed  to  luxury  and  ease  in  the  old  country. 
I  haven't  got  that  excuse — I'm  in  the  Gurkhas — 
and  what  I  do  I  do  because  I  am  a  rotter.  But 
there  are  men  who  are  not.  There  are  men,  Rajah 
Sahib,  right  up  there  by  the  northern  provinces, 
who  are  made  of  steel  and  iron,  real  men,  heroes — ' 

Nehal  Singh  leaned  forward  and  caught  his  com- 
panion by  the  arm. 

"Heroes?"  he  said  with  passionate  earnestness. 
"Heroes?" 

Geoffries  nodded.  That  look  of  enthusiastic  sym- 
pathy won  his  heart  and  awoke  his  soldier's  slum- 
bering pride. 

"I'm  no  good  at  explaining,"  he  said,  "but  I  know 
of  things  that  would  stir  your  blood.  For  a  whole 
year — my  first  year — I  was  up  north  in  a  mud  fort- 
ress where  there  was  only  one  other  European  offi- 
cer. It  was  Nicholson.  You  mayn't  have  heard 
of  him — precious  few  people  have — but  up  there  in 
that  lonely,  awful  place,  with  wild  hill-tribes  about 


WITHIN  THE  GATES  149 

us  and  a  handful  of  sepoys  for  our  protection,  he 
was  a  god — yes,  a  god;  for  there  was  not  one  of 
us  that  didn't  worship  him  and  honor  him.  We 
would  have  followed  him  to  the  mouth  of  hell.  He 
was  young,  only  six  months  a  captain,  and  yet  there 
was  nothing  he  didn't  seem  to  know,  nothing  he 
couldn't  do.  Every  day  he  was  in  the  saddle,  recon- 
noitering,  visiting  the  heads  of  the  tribes,  making 
peace,  distributing  justice.  Every  day  he  went  out 
with  his  life  in  his  hands,  and  every  night  he  came 
back,  quiet,  unpretending,  never  boasting,  never 
complaining,  and  yet  we  knew  that  somewhere  he 
had  risked  himself  to  clear  a  stone  out  of  our  way, 
to  win  an  enemy  over  to  our  side,  to  confirm  a  friend 
in  his  friendship.  Yes,  he  was  a  man;  and  there 
are  others  like  him.  No  one  hears  about  them,  but 
they  don't  care.  They  go  on  giving  their  lives  and 
energy  to  their  work,  and  never  ask  for  thanks  or 
reward.  I — once  hoped  to  be  like  that ;  but  I  came 
to  Marut — and  then — "  He  stumbled  and  stopped 
short.  "I'm  a  ranting  fool !"  he  went  on  angrily. 
"You  won't  understand,  Rajah  Sahib,  but  I  couldn't 
stand  your  thinking  that  they  are  all  like  me — " 

Nehal  Singh  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Nicholson !"  he  repeated  slowly,  as  though  he 
had  not  heard.  "I  shall  remember  that  name.  And 
there  are  more  like  him?  That  is  well."  Then  he 
laid  his  hand  on  the  young  officer's  shoulder.  "I 
am  going  to  help  you,"  he  said.  "I  am  going  to 
save  you  from  whatever  trouble  you  are  in,  and 
then  you  must  go  back  to  the  frontiers  and  become 
a  man  after  the  ideal  that  has  been  set  you.  One 
day  you  can  repay  me." 


150  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

The  storm  of  protest  died  on  Geoffries'  lips. 
Prejudices,  the  ingrained  arrogance  of  race  which 
scorned  to  accept  friendship  at  the  hands  of  an  in- 
ferior, sank  to  ashes  as  his  eyes  met  those  of  this 
Hindu  prince. 

"What  have  I  done  to  deserve  your  kindness, 
Rajah  Sahib?"  he  began  helplessly,  but  Nehal  Singh 
cut  him  smilingly  short. 

"You  have  saved  me,"  he  said.  "To-night  my 
faith  hung  in  the  balance.  You  have  given  it  back 
to  me,  and  in  my  turn  I  will  save  you  and  give  you 
back  what  you  have  lost.  And  this  shall  be  a  bond 
between  us.  You  will  hear  from  me  to-morrow. 
Good  night." 

"Good  night,  Rajah  Sahib — and — thank  you."  He 
hesitated,  and  then  went  on  painfully:  "You  have 
shown  me  that  we  have  behaved  like  cads.  I — am 
awfully  sorry." 

He  was  not  referring  to  the  Bazaar,  as  Nehal  sup- 
posed. 

"The  past  is  over  and  done  with,"  Nehal  Singh 
answered,  "but  the  future  is  ours — and  the  com- 
mon ideal  which  we  must  follow  for  the  common 
good." 

Hugh  Geoffries  stood  a  long  time  after  the  Rajah 
had  left  him,  absorbed  in  wondering  speculation. 
Who  was  this  strange  man  who  a  few  weeks  ago 
had  been  but  a  shadow,  and  to-day  stood  in  the 
midst  of  them,  sharing  their  life  and  yet  curiously 
alone?  He  had  met  other  Indian  rulers,  but  they 
had  not  been  as  this  man.  They  had  also  joined 
the  European  life,  but  they  had  come  as  strangers 
and  had  remained  as  strangers.  They  had  learned 


WITHIN  THE  GATES  151 

to  assume  an  outward  conformity  which  this  prince 
had  not  needed  to  learn.  And  yet  he  stood  alone, 
even  among  his  own  people  alone.  Wherein  lay 
the  link,  wherein  the  barrier?  Was  it  caste,  re- 
ligion? 

Hugh  Geoffries  found  no  answer  to  these  ques- 
tions. He  went  home  sobered  and  thoughtful,  dim- 
ly conscious  that  he  had  brushed  past  the  mystery 
of  a  great  character,  whom,  in  spite  of  all,  he  had 
been  forced  to  reverence. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  WHITE  HAND 

IT  is  an  old  truth  that  things  have  their  true  exist- 
ence only  in  ourselves.  A  picture  is  perfect,  moderate, 
or  indifferent,  according  to  our  tastes ;  an  event  fortu- 
nate or  unfortunate  according  to  our  character.  Thus 
life,  though  in  reality  no  more  than  a  pure  stream  of 
colorless  water,  changes  its  hue  the  moment  it  is  poured 
into  the  waiting  pitchers,  and  becomes  turbid,  or  as- 
sumes some  lovely  color,  or  retains  its  first  crystal  clear- 
ness, in  measure  that  the  earthenware  is  of  the  best  or 
poorest  quality. 

In  Travers'  pitcher  it  had  become  kaleidoscopic, 
only  saved  from  dire  confusion  by  one  steady,  con- 
sistent color,  which  tinged  and  killed  by  its  brilliancy 
the  hundred  other  rainbow  fragments.  Such  was  life 
for  him — such  at  least  it  had  become — a  gay  chaos  in 
which  the  one  important  thing  was  himself;  a  game, 
partly  instructive,  partly  amusing,  with  no  rules  save 
that  the  player  is  expected  to  win.  Of  course,  as  in  all 
matters,  a  certain  order,  or  appearance  of  order,  had  to 
be  maintained  ;  but  Travers  believed,  and  thought  every 
one  else  believed,  that  it  was  a  mere  "appearance,"  and 
that,  as  in  the  childish  game  of  "cheating,"  the  card 
put  on  the  table  has  not  always  the  face  it  is  affirmed 
by  the  player  to  possess.  Doubtless  it  is  sometimes 
an  honest  card — Travers  himself  played  honest 

152 


THE  WHITE  HAND  153 

cards  very  often — but  that  is  part  of  the  game,  part 
of  the  cheating,  one  might  be  tempted  to  say. 

A  suspicious  opponent  becomes  shy  of  accusing  a 
player  who  has  been  able  to  refute  a  previous  ac- 
cusation, and  those  people  whose  doubts  had  been 
aroused  by  one  of  Travers'  transactions,  and  had 
been  rash  enough  to  conclude  that  all  Travers' 
works  were  "shady,"  had  been  badly  burned  for  their 
presumption.  After  one  indignant  vindication  of 
his  methods  Travers  had  been  allowed  to  go  his 
way,  smiling,  unperturbed,  with  a  friendly  twinkle 
in  his  eye  for  his  detractors  which  acknowledged 
a  perfect  understanding.  On  the  whole  he  had 
been  successful.  A  Napoleon  of  finance,  he  never 
burned  his  bridges.  If  any  of  his  campaigns  failed, 
as  they  sometimes  did,  he  had  always  a  safe  re- 
treat left  open ;  and  if  his  bridge  proved  only  strong 
enough  to  carry  himself  over,  and  gave  way  under  his 
flying  followers — well,  it  was  a  misfortune  which 
could  have  been  averted  if  every  one  had  taken  as 
much  care  of  himself  as  he  had  done.  When 
well  beyond  pursuit,  he  would  hold  out  a  helping 
hand  to  the  survivors,  and  received  therefor  as  much 
gratitude  as  on  the  other  occasions  he  received  abuse. 
Which  filled  him  with  good-natured  amusement,  the 
one  being  as  undeserved  as  the  other. 

His  last  enterprise,  the  Marut  Campaign,  thanks 
to  a  happy  constellation  of  circumstances,  promised 
an  unusual  degree  of  success,  and  his  enthusiasm 
on  the  subject  was  not  the  less  real  because  he  kept 
hidden  his  usual  reserve  for  unforeseen  possibili- 
ties. According  to  the  Rajah's  invitation,  he  repaired 
early  on  the  second  day  after  their  momentous  con- 


154  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

versation  to  the  palace.  He  was  received  there  by 
an  old  servant,  who  told  him  that  Nehal  Singh  had 
gone  out  riding  before  sunrise,  but  was  expected 
to  return  shortly. 

"The  Rajah  Sahib  remembers  my  coming?"  Trav- 
ers  asked. 

"Yes,  Sahib.  The  Rajah  Sahib  commanded  that  the 
palace  should  be  at  the  Sahib's  disposal  while  he  waits." 

The  idea  suited  Travers  excellently.  He  shook 
himself  free  from  the  obsequious  native,  who 
showed  very  clearly  that  he  would  have  preferred 
to  have  kept  on  a  watchful  attendance,  and  began 
a  languid,  indifferent  examination  of  the  labyrinth- 
like  passages  and  deserted  halls.  But  the  languid- 
ness  and  indifference  were  only  masks  which  he 
chose  to  assume  when  too  great  interest  would 
have  thwarted  his  own  schemes.  In  reality  there 
was  not  a  jewel  or  ornament  which  he  did  not  no- 
tice and  appraise  at  the  correct  value.  The  immen- 
sity of  the  palace's  dimensions  and  its  intricate  plan 
made  it  impossible  to  obtain  a  complete  survey  in 
so  short  a  time,  but  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour 
Travers'  original  theory  was  confirmed.  Here  was 
a  power  of  wealth  lying  idle,  waiting,  as  it  seemed 
to  his  natural  egoism,  for  his  hands  to  put  it  into 
action. 

In  his  imagination  he  saw  the  jeweled  pillars  dis- 
mantled and  the  inlaid  gold  and  silver  changed  into  the 
hard  money  necessary  for  his  campaign — not  without 
regret.  The  man  of  taste  suffered  not  a  little  at  the 
changed  picture,  and  since  there  was  no  immediate  call 
upon  his  activities,  he  allowed  the  man  of  taste  to  pre- 
dominate over  the  speculator.  But  the  punishment  for 


THE  WHITE  HAND  155 

those  who  serve  God  and  mammon  is  inevitable.  There 
comes  the  moment  when  the  worshiper  of  mammon 
hears  the  voice  of  God  calling  him,  be  it  through  a 
beautiful  woman,  a  beautiful  poem,  a  beautiful  sculp- 
ture, or  a  simple  child,  and  the  soul,  God-given, 
struggles  against  the  bonds  that  have  been  laid 
upon  it. 

So  it  was  with  Travers  as  he  stood  there  in  the 
Throne  Room,  gazing  thoughtfully  out  over  the  gar- 
dens to  the  ornate  towers  of  the  temple.  He  was  fully 
conscious  of  the  dual  nature  in  him,  and  it  gave  him  a 
sort  of  painful  pleasure  to  allow  the  idealistic  side  a 
moment's  supremacy,  to  imagine  himself  throwing  up 
his  plans,  and  leaving  so  much  loveliness  and  peace  un- 
disturbed. It  was  a  mere  game  which  he  played  with 
his  own  emotions,  for  it  was  no  longer  in  his  power  to 
throw  up  anything  upon  which  he  had  set  his  mind. 
Without  knowing  it,  he  had  become  the  slave  of  his 
own  will,  a  headlong,  ruthless  will,  which  saw  nothing 
but  the  goal,  and  to  whom  the  lives  and  happiness  of 
others  were  no  more  than  obstacles  to  be  thrown  in- 
differently on  one  side.  Yet  in  this  short  interval, 
when  that  will  lay  inactively  in  abeyance,  he  suffered. 

He  had  lost  Lois,  among  other  things,  and  the  loss 
stung  both  sides  of  him.  He  wanted  her  because  he 
loved  her,  and  because  she  had  become  necessary  to 
his  plans.  He  had  wanted  her,  and  in  spite 
of  every  effort  she  had  seemed  to  pass  out 
of  his  reach.  Seemed!  As  he  stood  there  with 
folded  arms,  watching  the  sunlight  broaden  over 
the  peaceful  terraces,  it  pleased  his  fancy  to  imagine 
that  the  loss  was  real  and  definite,  and  that  he  stood 
willingly  on  one  side,  resigning  himself  to  the  de- 


156  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

cree  that  ordained  her  happiness.  With  a  stab- 
bing pain  came  back  the  memory  of  their  brief  in- 
terview together.  He  had  talked  of  praying  for 
her  future.  Had  he  been  wholly  sincere  or,  as  now, 
only  so  far  as  a  man  is  who  concentrates  his  tem- 
porary interest  upon  some  sport,  only  to  forget  it 
as  soon  as  it  is  over?  Possibly,  nay,  certainly.  He 
did  not  believe  in  himself — not,  at  least,  in  the  gen- 
erous, self-sacrificing  side.  He  called  that  sort  of 
thing  in  other  people  "pose"  and  in  himself  a  neces- 
sary relaxation.  For  it  was  one  of  his  maxims  that 
a  man  may  act  as  heartlessly  as  he  likes,  but  to  be 
successful  he  must  never  let  himself  grow  heartless. 
From  the  moment  that  he  ceases  to  be  capable  of 
feeling,  he  loses  touch  with  the  thoughts  and  sensi- 
bilities of  others.  And  his  power  of  feeling  "with" 
others  was  one  of  Travers'  chief  business  assets. 

It  is  dangerous,  however,  to  play  with  emotions 
that  are  never  to  be  allowed  an  active  influence. 
They  have  a  trick  of  growing  by  leaps  and  bounds, 
and  before  the  will  has  time  to  realize  that  an  en- 
emy is  at  its  gates,  to  fling  their  whole  force  against 
the  citadel  and  overwhelm  the  dazed  defenses.  How 
near  Archibald  Travers  came  that  morning  to  yield- 
ing to  himself  he  never  knew.  Lois'  happy,  thank- 
ful face  hovered  constantly  before  his  eyes.  He 
felt  very  tender  toward  her.  He  felt  that  he  should 
like  to  be  able  to  think  of  her  in  the  keeping  of  a 
good  man — like  Stafford — who,  if  pig-headed  and 
bigoted,  was  yet  calculated  to  stick  to  a  woman 
and  make  her  happy.  Looking  straight  at  himself 
and  his  past,  Travers  could  not  be  sure  that  he 


THE  WHITE  HAND  157 

would  stick  to  any  one.  Also  there  was  the  Rajah, 
optimistic,  and  trusting,  so  much  so  that  it  left  an  un- 
pleasant taste  in  the  mouth  to  fool  him. 

But  above  all  else,  there  was  Lois.  Lois  recurred  to 
him  constantly,  overshadowing  every  other  considera- 
tion. He  thought  of  her  in  all  her  aspects :  Lois,  the 
enterprising,  the  energetic,  plucky,  daredevil  comrade; 
Lois,  the  ever-ready,  untiring,  uncomplaining  partner 
in  the  hunt,  on  the  tennis-court,  in  the  ball-room  ;  Lois, 
the  woman,  with  her  gentle  charm,  her  tenderness,  her 
frankness,  her  truth.  He  bit  his  lip,  turning  away  from 
the  sunshine  with  knitted  brows  and  fierce  eyes. 
No,  it  is  no  light  matter  to  trifle  with  the  heart,  even 
if  it  is  only  one's  own.  Nor  is  it  wise  for  a  man, 
set  on  a  cool,  calculating  task  of  self -advancement, 
to  call  up  waters  from  his  hidden  wells  of  tender- 
ness, or  to  allow  a  nature  strangely  susceptible  (as 
even  the  worst  natures  are)  to  the  appeal  of  the 
good  and  beautiful  to  have  full  play,  if  only  for  a 
brief  hour.  Another  five  minutes  undisturbed  in 
that  splendid  hall,  with  God's  divine  world  before 
him  and  the  highest,  purest  art  of  man  about  him, 
and  Travers  might  never  have  waited  to  meet  Nehal 
Singh.  He  might  have  gone  thence,  and  taken  his 
schemes  and  plans  and  ambitions  to  another  sphere 
of  activity.  Five  minutes !  One  second  is  enough 
to  change  a  dozen  destinies.  A  straw  divides  an 
act  of  heroism  from  an  act  of  cowardice. 

Archibald  Travers  turned.  He  had  heard  no 
sound  and  yet  he  was  certain  that  he  was  no  longer 
alone,  that  some  one  stood  behind  him  and  was 
watching  him.  For  a  minute  he  remained  motion- 


158  THE    NATIVE    BORN 

less;  the  bright  sunlight  had  dazzled  him  and  he 
could  only  see  the  shadows  in  which  the  back  of 
the  chamber  was  enveloped.  Yet  the  conscious- 
ness of  another  presence  continued,  and  when  sud- 
denly a  shadow  freed  itself  from  the  rest  and  came 
toward  him,  he  started  less  with  surprise  than  with 
a  reasonless,  nameless  alarm.  It  was  a  woman's 
figure  which  came  down  toward  the  golden  patch 
of  light  in  which  he  stood.  He  could  not  see  her 
face  for  it  was  completely  shrouded  in  a  long  orien- 
tal veil,  but  the  bowed  shoulders,  the  slow,  unsteady 
step  indicated  an  advanced  age  or  an  overpowering 
physical  weakness.  She  came  on  without  hesita- 
tion, passing  so  close  to  Travers  that  she  brushed 
his  arm,  and  reached  the  hangings  before  the  win- 
dow. There  she  paused.  Travers  passed  his  hand 
quickly  before  his  eyes.  Her  movements  had  been 
so  quiet,  so  blindly  indifferent  to  his  presence  that 
he  could  not  for  the  moment  free  himself  from  the 
fancy  that  he  was  in  the  power  of  an  hallucination. 
Then  she  lifted  her  hand,  drawing  the  curtain  back, 
and  he  uttered  an  involuntary,  half-smothered  ex- 
clamation. The  hand  was  thin,  claw-like,  white  as 
though  no  drop  of  blood  flowed  beneath  the  lifeless 
skin,  and  on  the  fourth  finger  he  saw  a  plain  band 
of  gold. 

"Who  are  you?"  Travers  demanded.  The  ques- 
tion had  left  his  lips  almost  without  his  knowledge. 
She  turned  and  looked  at  him,  and  in  spite  of  the 
veil  he  felt  the  full  intensity  of  a  gaze  which  seemed 
to  be  seeking  his  very  soul.  How  long  they  stood 
there  watching  each  other  in  breathless  silence 
Travers  did  not  know.  Nor  did  he  know  why  this 


THE  WHITE  HAND  159 

strange,  powerless  figure  filled  him  with  a  sicken- 
ing repulsion  and  held  him  paralyzed  so  that  he  could 
only  wait  in  passive,  motionless  expectation.  Sudden- 
ly the  hand  sank  to  her  side  and  he  shook  himself  as 
though  he  had  been  awakened  from  a  nightmare. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  repeated  firmly. 

"You  are  not  the  one  I  seek,"  she  answered. 
"Why  do  you  keep  me  from  him  ?  He  is  mine — my 
very  own.  Where  is  he?  I  am  always  seeking  for 
him — but  he  is  like  the  shadows — he  vanishes — 
with  the  sunshine.  In  my  dreams  I  see  him — "  Her 
voice,  thin  and  low-pitched,  died  into  silence.  She 
seemed  to  have  shrunk  together ;  she  swayed  as 
though  she  would  have  fallen,  and  Travers  took 
an  involuntary  step  toward  her. 

"You  speak  English — perfect  English,"  he  said. 
"Who  are  you?  Whom  do  you  seek?  Perhaps  I 
can  help  you — ?"  His  words  electrified  her.  She 
caught  his  arm  in  a  grip  of  iron  and  drew  close  to 
him  so  that  her  hot,  quickly  drawn  breath  fanned  his 
cheek. 

"Help  me?"  she  whispered.  "Who  can  help  me? 
Don't  you  know  that  I  am  dead?" 

Travers  shuddered ;  he  tried  to  free  himself  from 
the  clutch  of  the  white,  bloodless  hand,  but  she 
clung  to  him  desperately,  despairingly,  while  her  voice 
rose  in  an  agonized  crescendo. 

"Don't  you  know  that  I  am  dead?" 

Footsteps  came  hurrying  down  the  corridor.  A 
sudden  impulse,  a  reawakening  of  the  spirit  of  action 
and  enterprise,  which  had  carried  him  through  his  life, 
bade  him  grasp  her  hand  and  drag  from  it  the  loosely 
fitting  ring. 


160  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"I  will  see  you  again — dead  or  living,  I  will  help 
you,"  he  said. 

The  next  instant  he  drew  quickly  back.  A  white- 
bearded  native  servant  had  entered  and  was  mov- 
ing swiftly  with  cat-like  stealth  toward  the  veiled  figure 
by  the  window.  He  was  breathless,  as  though  with 
hard  running,  and  seemed  oblivious  of  Travers'  pres- 
ence until,  with  an  exclamation  of  relief,  he  had  grasped 
the  unresisting  figure  by  the  wrist.  Then  he  turned, 
salaaming  profoundly. 

"May  the  Lord  Sahib  forgive  his  servant!"  he 
said  with  a  humility  which  in  Travers'  ears  rang 
curiously  ironical.  "The  woman  is  possessed  of  a 
devil  who  speaketh  lies  out  of  her  mouth.  It  would 
cost  thy  servant  dear  if  she  were  found  with  the 
Lord  Sahib." 

Travers  assumed  an  air  of  indifference. 

"Who  is  she?"  he  asked  carelessly. 

"My  wife,  Lord  Sahib.  The  devil  has  possessed  her 
these  many  years." 

Travers  caught  the  flash  of  the  cunning,  sus- 
picious eyes  and  knew  that  the  man  had  lied.  But 
he  said  nothing,  dismissing  him  and  his  captive 
with  a  gesture.  Only  for  an  instant,  governed  by 
an  irresistible  instinct,  he  glanced  over  his  shoulder. 
He  saw  then  that  the  woman's  head  was  turned  to- 
ward him  and  that  one  white  hand  was  raised  as 
though  in  mingled  appeal  and  imperative  command. 
Travers  nodded  almost  inperceptibly  and  she  dis- 
appeared into  the  shadows  of  the  corridor. 

For  some  minutes  Travers  remained  motionless, 
then,  as  though  nothing  unusual  had  happened,  he 
resumed  his  critical  survey  of  the  precious  stones 


THE  WHITE  HAND  161 

with  which  the  pillars  were  adorned,  apparently 
so  absorbed  that  he  did  not  notice  the  sound  of 
approaching  footsteps.  Only  when  he  was  called 
by  name  did  he  look  up  with  a  start  of  pleased  sur- 
prise. 

"Ah,  Your  Highness !"  he  exclaimed. 

The  young  prince  stood  in  the  curtained  door- 
way, dressed  as  though  he  had  just  returned  from 
riding.  He  was  dusty  and  travel-stained  and,  in 
spite  of  his  energetic,  upright  bearing,  he  looked 
exhausted.  There  were  heavy  lines  under  the  keen 
eyes,  and  Travers  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  his 
cheeks  were  slightly  hollow,  giving  his  whole  ap- 
pearance an  air  of  haggard  weariness.  He  lifted 
his  hand  in  return  to  Travers'  salute,  and  came 
forward  with  a  welcoming  smile. 

"My  servants  told  me  I  should  find  you  here," 
he  said.  "I  hope  the  time  of  waiting  has  not  been 
too  long?" 

"Indeed,  no!"  Travers  returned,  as  he  descended 
the  throne  steps.  "I  have  been  amusing  myself 
right  royally.  You  have  surely  the  most  perfect 
collection  of  stones  in  India." 

"They  are  well  enough,"  Nehal  answered,  his 
smile  deepening.  "Have  you  been  calculating  how 
many  rupees  they  will  bring  in?" 

The  remark,  which  at  another  time  would  have 
called  a  frank  laugh  of  agreement  from  Travers, 
caused  him  instead  a  faint  feeling  of  annoyance. 

"Perhaps  I  have,"  he  said,  not  without  a  sugges- 
tion of  bitterness,  "but  I  am  still  sufficiently  alive 
to  beauty  to  be  able  to  appreciate  it  apart  from  its 
intrinsic  value." 


162  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

Nehal  Singh  motioned  him  to  take  his  seat  at  the 
low  table  which  a  servant  had  at  that  moment 
brought  in. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said.  "I  fear  my  remark  hurt 
you.  I  thought  as  a  business  man  you  had  only  one 
standpoint  from  which  you  judged — you  told  me 
as  much." 

"Yes,  and  I  told  you  the  truth,"  Travers  said, 
after  a  moment,  in  which  he  bent  frowningly  over 
his  cup  of  coffee.  "I  am  a  business  man,  Rajah, 
and  for  a  business  man  who  wants  to  make  any 
sort  of  success  of  his  life  there  must  be  only  one 
standpoint.  If  he  has  another  side  to  his  nature,  as 
I  have — the  purely  artistic  and  emotional  side — he 
must  crush  it  out  of  sight,  if  not  out  of  existence, 
as  I  do."  He  looked  up  with  a  sudden  return  of 
his  old  tranquil  humor.  "You  must  not  count  it 
as  anything  if  the  beauty  of  these  surroundings 
for  a  moment  lifted  the  unpractical  side  of  me  up- 
permost," he  said,  laughing.  "It  was<  purely  pro 
tern.,  and  I  am  once  more  my  normal,  hard-headed 
self,  at  your  disposal,  Rajah." 

Nehal  Singh  nodded  absently. 

"I  believe  what  you  say  is  true,"  he  said.  "A 
man  who  goes  out  into  the  world  and  enters  into 
her  conflicts  must  have  only  one  side — the  strong, 
hard,  practical  side;  otherwise  he  can  do  nothing, 
neither  for  himself  nor  others.  The  idea  came  to 
me  already  the  other  night  after  I  left  you." 

"Indeed?"  Travers  murmured.  "What  made  you 
think  of  that,  Rajah?" 

Nehal  gave  a  gesture  which  seemed  to  put  the 
question  to  one  side. 


THE  WHITE  HAND  163 

"Something  I  heard — saw,"  he  said.  "It  does 
not  matter.  It  made  me  hesitate.  That  is  all." 

"Hesitate?" 

"To  enter  into  the  conflict.  I  felt  for  the  moment 
that  I  was  not  fit — that  it  would  overwhelm  me. 
I  had  made  a  picture  of  the  world,  a  picture  which 
after  all  might  not  be  the  true  one.  I  did  not  be- 
lieve that  I  could  bear  the  reality." 

He  bent  his  head  wearily  on  his  hand,  and  there 
followed  an  instant's  silence  in  which  Travers 
thoughtfully  studied  his  companion.  He  was  won- 
dering what  cross-current  of  influence  had  flowed 
into  the  stream  on  which  he  meant  to  sweep  the 
prince  toward  his  purpose.  Any  idea  of  relinquish- 
ing his  plans  had  evaporated ;  the  very  suggestion 
of  another  influence  having  been  sufficient  to  put 
him  on  his  mettle  and  call  to  life  the  full  energy 
of  his  headstrong  ambition.  He  had  the  tact,  how- 
ever, to  remain  silent,  and  to  leave  Nehal's  train 
of  thought  uninterrupted.  And  this  required  con- 
siderable patience  and  self-control,  for  the  Rajah 
seemed  to  forget  his  existence,  and  sat  staring  va- 
cantly in  front  of  him,  his  head  still  resting  on  his 
hand. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on  suddenly,  but  without  chang- 
ing his  position,  "that  is  what  I  felt  two  nights  ago. 
The  practical,  hard  side  of  me  seemed  lacking.  I 
felt  that  I  was  a  dreamer,  like  the  rest  of  my  un- 
fortunate race,  and  that  to  enter  into  battle  with 
the  world,  as  you  suggested,  could  only  bring  mis- 
fortune. I  did  not  realize  then  that,  at  whatever  cost, 
it  was  my  duty." 

"Duty?" 


164  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"Yes.  A  dreamer  has  no  right  to  his  dreams,  be 
they  ever  so  beautiful,  unless  he  changes  them  into 
substance.  In  my  dreams  I  have  loved  the  world 
and  my  fellow-creatures.  But  what  does  that  avail 
me  if  I  do  nothing  for  the  suffering  and  sorrow 
with  which  the  world  is  filled?  I  must  go  out  and 
help.  I  must  put  my  whole  wealth  and  strength  to 
the  task,  even  if  I  lose  thereby  my  peace.  I  must 
'sell  all  that  I  have.'  Is  not  that  the  advice  your 
Great  Teacher  gave  to  the  young  man  seeking  to  do 
his  duty  ?" 

Travers  started,  and  then  smiled. 

"Is  there  anything  you  do  not  know  or  have  not 
read,  Rajah?"  he  said,  with  an  amused  admiration. 

"I  have  read  a  great  deal,"  was  the  earnest  an- 
swer, "but  it  seems  to  me  as  though  I  had  known 
nothing  until  yesterday.  Yesterday,  in  an  hour,  a 
new  world  was  revealed  to  me."  He  leaned  forward, 
extending  his  hand.  "I  ask  you  as  a  man  of  hon- 
or," he  said,  "before  you  show  me  your  plans,  be- 
fore I  definitely  engage  myself  in  this  great  work, 
tell  me,  do  you  believe  that  it  will  be  for  my  peo- 
ple, what  you  say  ?  Will  it  lift  them  from  their  misery ; 
will  it  make  them  prosperous  and  happy?" 

Travers  took  the  hand  in  his  own.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  studied  it  intently,  curiously,  as  though 
it  had  been  the  sole  topic  of  their  conversation. 
Then  his  eyes  met  those  of  the  Rajah  with  unflinch- 
ing calm  and  decision. 

"As  far  as  I  can  be  sure  of  anything,  it  will  do 
for  your  country  all  that  I  have  said,"  he  answered. 
And  therein  he  was  sincere — as  sincere,  that  is,  as 
a  man  can  be  whose  retreat  is  already  secured. 


THE  WHITE  HAND  165 

With  a  sigh  of  relief  Nehal  Singh  drew  the  table 
closer. 

"Show  me  your  plans,"  he  said. 

For  three  uninterrupted  hours  the  two  men  sat 
over  the  papers  which  Travers  had  brought.  Now 
and  again  he  lifted  his  head  and  glanced  toward 
the  doorway  through  which  the  strange  apparition 
had  disappeared,  half  expecting  to  see  once  more 
the  white  extended  hand,  half  believing  that  he  had 
been  the  victim  of  a  delusion,  a  fantasy  born  of 
the  mysterious  veil  with  which  the  whole  palace  seemed 
shrouded.  Then  he  glanced  at  the  ring  which  sparkled 
on  his  own  finger,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  no  delusion, 
but  that  a  corner  of  the  veil  lay  perhaps  within  his 
grasp. 


CHAPTER  XIII 


THE  English  colony  heard  of  the  Rajah's  project 
with  mingled  feelings  of  amusement  and  anxiety. 
As  Colonel  Carmichael  expressed  it,  it  would  have 
been  safer  to  have  stirred  up  a  hornet's  nest  than  to 
attempt  any  vital  reform  in  the  native  quarters ; 
and  he  was  firmly  convinced  that  the  inhabitants 
of  the  Bazaar  would  cling  to  their  dirt  and  squalor 
with  the  same  tenacity  with  which  they  clung  to 
their  religion.  When  the  first  batch  of  native  work- 
ers, under  the  direction  of  a  European  overseer,  set 
out  on  the  task  of  constructing  new  and  sanitary 
quarters  half  a  mile  outside  Marut,  he  announced 
that  it  was  no  more  than  the  calm  before  the  storm, 
and  kept  a  weather  eye  open  for  trouble.  But,  in 
spite  of  these  gloomy  prognostications,  the  work 
proceeded  calmly  and  steadily  on  its  way.  The 
new  dwellings  were  well  constructed,  broad,  clean 
thoroughfares  taking  the  place  of  the  narrow,  dirty 
passages  which  had  run  like  an  unwholesome  laby- 
rinth through  the  old  Bazaar.  Water  in  abundance 
was  laid  on  from  the  river.  Natives  of  superior 
caste,  who  had  proved  their  capacity  for  order,  were 
put  in  charge  of  the  different  blocks  and  made  re- 
sponsible for  their  condition.  Of  more  value  than 
all  this  was  the  energy  and  willingness  with  which 

166 


THE  ROAD  CLEAR  167 

the  people  entered  into  the  project.  More  workers 
offered  themselves  than  were  required,  and  could 
only  be  comforted  with  the  assurance  that  very 
soon  a  new  enterprise  would  be  set  on  foot  in  which 
they,  too,  would  find  occupation. 

A  month  after  the  first  stone  had  been  laid,  Staf- 
ford paid  a  visit  of  inspection  in  company  with  the 
Rajah  and  Travers.  On  his  way  back  be  passed 
the  Carys'  bungalow,  and  seeing  Beatrice  on  the 
verandah,  he  had  ridden  up,  as  he  said,  to  make  his 
salaams.  Very  little  persuasion  tempted  him  into 
the  cool,  shady  drawing-room.  He  knew  that  Lois 
would  be  up  at  the  club,  and,  faute  de  mieux,  Bea- 
trice's company  was  something  to  be  appreciated 
after  a  hot  and  exhausting  afternoon.  For  a  rather 
curious  friendship  had  sprung  up  between  these 
two.  They  had  nothing  in  common.  His  stiffly 
honest  and  orthodox  character  was  oil  to  the  water 
of  her  outspoken  indifference  to  the  usual  codes  and 
morals  of  ordinary  society.  And  yet  he  liked  her, 
and,  strangely  enough,  he  never  found  that  her 
supercilious  criticisms  and  daring  opinions  jarred 
on  him.  Perhaps  it  was  his  honesty  which  rec- 
ognized the  honesty  in  her,  just  as,  on  the  reverse  side, 
the  sanctimonious  Philistinisms  of  Maud  Berry  left  him 
glowing  with  irritation  because  his  instincts  told  him 
that  they  were  not  even  sincere. 

On  this  particular  afternoon  he  was  more  than 
usually  glad  to  have  a  few  minutes'  quiet  chat  with 
Beatrice.  That  which  he  had  seen  and  heard  on 
his  four  hours'  ride  had  stirred  to  life  a  sudden 
doubt  in  himself  and  in  his  hitherto  firmly  rooted 
principles,  and,  like  a  great  many  men,  he  felt  that 


i68  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

he  could  only  regain  a  clear  outlook  by  an  ex- 
change of  ideas  with  some  second  person. 

"You  know  my  standpoint  pretty  well  by  now," 
he  said,  as,  seated  in  a  comfortable  lounge  chair, 
he  watched  Beatrice  busy  over  some  patterns  which 
she  had  just  received  from  London.  "It  isn't  your 
standpoint,  of  course,  and  no  doubt  you  would  be 
fully  in  your  right  to  say,  'I  told  you  so,'  when  I 
confess  that  I  am  beginning  to  waver." 

"I  never  say,  'I  told  you  so,' "  she  returned,  smil- 
ing. "That  is  the  war-cry  of  those  accustomed  to 
few  triumphs." 

"Not  that  by  wavering  I  mean  that  I  am  coming 
round  to  your  opinions,"  he  went  on.  "On  the  con- 
trary, nothing  on  this  earth  will  shake  my  theory 
that  a  mingling  of  races  is  an  impossibility.  They 
must  and  will,  with  few  exceptions,  remain  sep- 
arate to  all  eternity,  and  one  or  the  other  must  have 
the  upper  hand  if  there  is  to  be  any  law  or  order. 
No,  it's  not  that.  It's  my  self-satisfaction  that  is 
beginning  to  waver." 

"You  must  be  more  explicit,"  Beatrice  observed. 

"I  mean,  men  like  myself — in  fact,  most  English- 
men— are  pretty  well  convinced,  even  when  they 
have  the  rare  tact  of  keeping  it  to  themselves,  that 
they  are  the  salt  of  the  earth.  They  may  be,  as  a 
whole,  but  there  are  exceptions  all  round,  which 
we  are  inclined  to  overlook  because  of  the  foregone 
conclusion.  It  has  struck  me  lately  that  there  are 
some  of  us — well,  not  up  to  the  mark." 

"Has  this  revelation  come  to  you  by  force  of 
contrast?"  she  asked.  "Haven't  you  been  out  with  the 
Rajah?" 


THE  ROAD  CLEAR  169 

He  looked  at  her  with  the  pleasure  of  a  man  who 
has  been  saved  the  bother  of  going  into  explana- 
tory details. 

"Yes,  I  have,"  he  admitted,  "and  you  are  not  far 
wrong  when  you  talk  about  the  force  of  contrast. 
You  know  what  I  thought  of  the  Rajah.  There 
are  any  amount  of  good-looking  native  princes  with 
nice  surface  manners — that  sort  of  thing  wouldn't 
impress  me.  But  this  man  has  more  than  good 
looks  and  manners.  He  is  a  born  leader.  You 
should  have  seen  him  this  afternoon.  There  wasn't 
a  thing  he  overlooked  or  forgot.  Every  detail  was 
at  his  fingers'  ends,  and  he  has  a  fire,  an  energy, 
an  idealistic  belief  in  himself  and  in  the  whole  world 
which  fairly  sweeps  you  off  your  feet.  It  did  me. 
I  believe  it  did  the  Colonel,  and  I  know  it  did  the 
natives.  The  dust  wasn't  low  enough  for  them.  And 
it  wasn't  face  worship,  either.  It  came  straight 
from  the  heart;  I  could  see  that  they  were  ready 
to  die  for  him  on  the  spot,  at  his  mere  word." 

"What  a  power!"  Beatrice  murmured.  She  had 
stopped  turning  over  the  patterns  and  was  leaning 
back  in  her  chair,  her  eyes  fixed  thoughtfully  in 
front  of  her. 

"Yes,  it  is  a  power,"  he  echoed  emphatically,  "and 
I  wish  to  goodness  we  had  more  men  like  him  on 
our  side.  We  English  take  things  too  lightly — most 
of  us.  And  in  India  it  is  not  safe  to  take  things 
lightly." 

He  saw  that  she  was  about  to  make  some  obser- 
vation, but  at  that  moment  Mrs.  Cary  entered.  She 
had  evidently  been  out  in  the  garden,  for  she  had 
a  bunch  of  freshly  cut  flowers  in  her  hand  and  a  girlish 


170  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

muslin  hat  shaded  the  fat  cheeks  flushed  with  the  un- 
usual exertion. 

"Ah,  there  you  are,  Captain  Stafford!"  she  said, 
extending  her  disengaged  hand.  "Mr.  Travers  said 
he  was  sure  you  had  dropped  in,  and  wouldn't  be- 
lieve it  when  I  told  him  that  I  had  heard  and  seen 
nothing  of  you.  There,  come  in,  Mr.  Travers.  It's 
all  right." 

She  smiled  at  Stafford  with  a  playful  significance 
that  seemed  to  indicate  an  unspoken  comprehen- 
sion of  the  situation,  but  Stafford  did  not  smile 
back.  Like  a  great  many  worthy  and  honest  peo- 
ple, he  was  not  gifted  with  a  sense  of  humor,  and  the 
ridiculous,  especially  if  it  took  a  human  form,  was  his 
abomination.  Consequently  he  disliked  Mrs.  Gary, 
though  not  for  the  reason  which  made  her  unpopular 
in  other  quarters. 

Travers  followed  almost  immediately  on  her  in- 
vitation, like  Stafford,  bearing  the  marks  of  a  hard 
day's  work  on  his  unusually  pale  face. 

"I  expect  Stafford  has  told  you  what  a  time  we've 
been  having,"  he  said,  in  response  to  Beatrice's 
greeting.  "It's  no  joke  to  have  aroused  an  energy 
like  the  Rajah's,  and  I  can  see  myself  worked  to  a 
shadow.  Please  forgive  my  get-up,  Miss  Cary,  but 
this  isn't  an  official  call.  I  only  wanted  to  fetch 
Stafford." 

"I'm  afraid  you  can't,"  Mrs.  Cary  put  in.  "We 
have  engaged  the  poor  exhausted  man  to  tea,  and 
you  are  strictly  forbidden  to  worry  him  with  your 
tiresome  business.  You  can  stop,  too,  if  you  prom- 
ise not  to  bother." 


THE  ROAD  CLEAR  171 

Travers,  who  had  as  a  rule  an  equally  amiable 
smile  for  every  one,  remained  unexpectedly  serious. 

"I  am  awfully  sorry,"  he  said,  hesitating.  "Per- 
haps it  would  do  another  time." 

"What  is  it  about?"  Stafford  asked.  "Will  it 
take  long?" 

"As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  only  a  few  minutes." 

There  was  a  significance  in  the  tone  of  Travers' 
answer  which  passed  unnoticed.  Stafford  rose  laz- 
ily to  his  feet. 

"Perhaps  you'll  give  us  the  run  of  your  garden 
for  just  so  long,  Mrs.  Gary?"  he  said.  "I'm  not  go- 
ing to  let  Travers  cheat  me  out  of  my  promised 
cup  of  tea.  Come  on,  my  dear  fellow.  I'm  ready 
for  the  worst." 

The  two  men  went  down  the  verandah  steps,  and 
Mrs.  Cary  and  her  daughter  remained  alone.  Bea- 
trice returned  at  once  to  her  contemplation  of  the 
fashion-plates,  her  attitude  enforcing  silence  upon 
the  elder  woman,  who  stood  by  the  round  polished 
table  nervously  arranging  the  flowers.  Evidently 
she  had  something  to  say,  but  for  once  had  not  the 
courage  to  say  it.  At  last,  with  one  of  those  de- 
termined gestures  with  which  irresolute  people 
strive  to  stiffen  their  wavering  wills,  she  pushed 
the  flowers  on  one  side,  and  came  and  sat  directly 
opposite  Beatrice. 

"Have  you  got  a  few  minutes  to  spare?"  she 
asked. 

Beatrice  looked  up,  and  put  the  papers  aside. 

"As  many  as  you  like." 

Mrs.  Gary's  eyes  sank  beneath  the  direct  gaze, 


172  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

and  she  began  to  play  with  the  rings  that  adorned 
her  fat  fingers. 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  be  angry,"  she  said.  "If  it 
wasn't  for  my  duty  as  a  mother,  I  should  let  you  go 
your  own  way — as  it  is,  I  must  just  risk  it." 

"There  is  no  risk,"  Beatrice  returned  gravely. 
"Where  duty  is  concerned,  I  am  all  consideration." 

"It's  about  your  intimacy  with  His  Highness," 
Mrs.  Gary  went  on.  "I  can't  help  thinking  it  has 
gone  too  far." 

"In  what  way?" 

"You  ride  out  with  him  every  morning." 

"You  said  nothing  a  month  ago — when  I  went 
out  for  the  first  time." 

"It  was  the  first  time.  And  I  didn't  know  people 
would  talk." 

"Do  they  talk?" 

"Yes.  Mrs.  Berry  told  me  only  this  afternoon 
that  she  thought  it  most  infra  dig.  She  told  me  as 
a  friend—" 

Beatrice  laughed. 

"Mrs.  Berry  as  a  friend  is  a  new  departure." 

"Never  mind.  There  was  something  in  what  she 
said.  She  told  me  it  spoiled  your  chances — with 
others." 

"I  dare  say  she  told  you  that  it  is  very  immoral 
for  me  to  ride  out  with  Captain  Stafford?" 

Mrs.  Gary  threw  up  her  head. 

"I  don't  take  any  notice  of  that  sort  of  thing. 
That  is  only  her  cattishness,  because  she  wants 
Stafford  for  Maud." 

"You  don't  mind  about  Captain  Stafford,  then?" 

"Goodness,  no!     Why  should  I?    A  man  wants 


THE  ROAD  CLEAR  173 

to  know  a  girl  before — well,  before  he  asks  her.  I 
don't  see  anything  in  that.  But  this  business  with 
the  Rajah  is  quite  different.  Of  course,  I  know 
you  are  only  amusing  yourself,  but  still  it  lowers 
your  value  to  be  seen  so  much  with  a  colored  man." 

"Why  should  you  mind?  Surely  you  can  see 
for  yourself  that  Captain  Stafford  is  to  all  intents 
and  purposes  engaged  to  Lois?" 

"Rubbish!  She  thinks  so,  but  it's  a  lukewarm 
business  which  could  easily  be  brought  to  nothing1 
— if  you  tried.  And  besides,  I  don't  want  you 
talked  about.  We  have  been  talked  about  quite 
enough." 

"Why  should  people  talk?"  exclaimed  Beatrice, 
with  a  sudden  change  in  tone.  "What  harm  do  I 
do?  What  do  they  suppose  goes  on  between  us?" 

Mrs.  Cary  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  she  said  indifferently. 

Beatrice  sat  back  in  her  chair,  for  a  moment  si- 
lent. A  faint  smile  moved  the  corners  of  her  fine 
mouth. 

"I  fancy  our  conversation,  if  they  heard  it,  would 
startle  the  unbearable  Marut  scandal-mongers,"  she 
said.  "What  do  you  say  to  a  Bible-class  on  horse- 
back?" 

Mrs.  Gary's  small  round  eyes  opened  wide. 

"A  Bible-class?"  she  repeated  suspiciously. 

Beatrice  nodded. 

"Yes.  I  have  been  teaching  him  the  rudiments 
of  Christianity.  It  seems  you  must  have  neglected 
my  education  in  that  respect,  for  I  have  had  to  burn 
a  good  deal  of  midnight  oil  to  keep  pace  with  the 
demand  upon  my  knowledge.  I  tell  him  it  as  a 


174  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

story,  and  he  reads  it  himself  afterward.  We  are  half- 
way through  St.  John.  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?" 

The  tone  of  intense  irritation  pulled  Mrs.  Gary 
up  short  in  the  midst  of  a  loud  fit  of  laughter. 

"I'm  sorry,  my  dear,"  she  apologized,  "but  you 
really  must  admit  it's  rather  funny." 

"What  is  rather  funny?" 

"Oh,  well,  you,  you  know.  Fancy  you  as  a  mis- 
sionary !  I  must  tell  Mrs.  Berry.  It  will  amuse 
her,  and — " 

She  stopped  again,  as  though  she  had  inadvert- 
ently trodden  on  the  tail  of  a  scorpion.  She  had 
seen  Beatrice  angry,  but  not  as  now.  There  was 
something  not  unlike  desperation  in  the  eyes  that 
were  suddenly  turned  on  her. 

"You  won't  tell  Mrs.  Berry,  mother.  You  will 
never  breathe  a  word  to  a  single  soul  of  what  I 
have  told  you.  It  was  very  absurd  of  me  to  say 
anything — I  don't  know  what  made  me.  I  might 
have  known  that  you  would  not  understand — but  some- 
times I  forget  that  'mother'  is  not  a  synonym  for  every- 
thing." 

Mrs.  Gary  smarted  under  what  she  felt  to  be  an 
unjust  and  uncalled-for  attack. 

"I  don't  see  what  I  have  done  now,"  she  pro- 
tested indignantly.  "What  is  there  to  understand 
that  I  haven't  understood,  pray?" 

Her  daughter  got  up  as  though  she  could  no 
longer  bear  to  remain  still,  and  began  to  walk  rest- 
lessly about  the  room. 

"Never  mind,"  she  said.  "That  doesn't  matter. 
What  does  matter  is  that  I  will  not  have  the  Rajah 
made  a  butt  for  the  Station's  witticisms.  You  can 


THE  ROAD  CLEAR  175 

say  what  you  like  about  me — I  don't  care  in  the 
least — but  you  will  leave  him  alone." 

"Dear  me,  what  are  you  so  annoyed  about?"  Mrs. 
Gary  inquired,  with  irritating  solicitude.  "How 
was  I  to  know  you  were  seriously  contemplating 
the  Rajah's  conversion?  I'm  sure  it's  very  nice  of 
you.  Child,  don't  pull  all  those  roses  to  pieces !" 

Beatrice  dropped  the  flowers  impatiently. 

"It's  more  likely  that  he  will  convert  me,"  she 
muttered,  but  the  remark  fell  on  unheeding  ears. 

"I  wish  you  would  let  me  tell  Mrs.  Berry  about 
it,"  Mrs.  Cary  went  on.  "It  might  make  quite  a  nice 
impression,  and  stop  her  saying  disagreeable  things. 
Of  course,  if  your  intimacy  with  His  Highness  was  due 
to  your  desire  to  bring  him  to  a  nice  Christian  state,  it 
would  be  quite  excusable.  I  might  even  ask  Mr.  Berry 
for  some  of  those  tracts  he  is  always  distributing 
among  the  natives." 

It  was  Beatrice's  turn  to  laugh.  Her  laugh  had 
a  disagreeable  ring. 

"For  the  Rajah?  I  wonder  how  he  would  recon- 
cile them  with  all  I  have  been  telling  him  about 
love,  and  pity,  and  tolerance?  Besides,  my  dear 
mother,  diplomatist  as  you  are,  don't  you  see  that 
it  wouldn't  have  the  least  effect?  Do  you  think  the 
most  kindly  thinking  person  in  this  Station  would 
believe  for  an  instant  that  /  would  ever  convert 
any  one?  Of  course  I  should  be  seen  through  at 
once.  They  would  say — and  perfectly  correctly, 
too — that  I  was  just  fooling  the  Rajah  for  my  own 
purposes." 

"What  are  your  purposes?"  Mrs.  Cary  demanded. 

Beatrice  raised  her  eyebrows. 


176  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"You  knew  them  a  month  ago." 

"Oh,  yes;  then  it  was  for  Mr.  Travers'  sake.  But 
now — " 

"Now  things  are  the  same  as  they  were  then.  I — 
I  can't  leave  off  what  I  have  begun." 

She  had  gone  over  to  the  piano  and,  opening  it, 
sat  down  and  began  to  play  a  few  disjointed  bars. 
Mrs.  Gary,  who  watched  the  lovely  face  with  what 
is  sometimes  called  a  mother's  pride,  and  which  is 
sometimes  no  more  than  the  satisfaction  of  a  mer- 
chant with  salable  goods,  saw  something  which  made 
her  sit  bolt  upright  in  her  comfortable  chair.  A  tear 
rolled  down  the  smooth  cheek  turned  toward  her — a 
single  tear,  which  splashed  on  the  white  hand  resting 
on  the  keys.  That  was  all,  but  it  was  enough.  With 
a  jingle  of  gold  bracelets  and  a  rustle  of  silk,  Mrs.  Gary 
struggled  to  her  feet  and  came  and  stood  by  her  daugh- 
ter, her  heavy  hand  clasping  her  by  the  shoulder. 

"Beaty!"  she  said  stupidly.     "Are  you — crying?" 

Beatrice  turned  on  the  music-stool  and  looked 
her  mother  calmly  in  the  face.  There  was  not  a  trace 
of  emotion  in  the  clear,  steady  eyes. 

"I — crying?"  she  said.  "What  should  have  made 
you  think  that?  Have  you  ever  seen  me  cry?" 

"No,  never.  I  couldn't  understand.  You  are  all 
right?" 

"Perfectly  all  right,  thank  you.  Hadn't  you  bet- 
ter see  about  the  tea?" 

Mrs.  Gary  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  and  satisfac- 
tion. 

"Of  course.  How  thoughtful  you  can  be,  my 
dear!  The  gentlemen  may  be  back  any  moment." 

She  sailed  heavily  across  the  room,  on  her  way 


THE  ROAD  CLEAR  177 

passing  the  glass  doors  which  opened  on  to  the 
verandah. 

"Why!"  she  exclaimed,  stopping  short,  "if  that 
isn't  Captain  Stafford  mounting  his  horse!  Look, 
Beaty !  And  he  hasn't  even  come  to  say  good-by." 

Beatrice  turned  indifferently. 

"I  expect  he  has  some  important  business — "  she 
began,  and  then,  as  her  eyes  fell  on  the  man  outside 
swinging  himself  up  into  the  saddle,  she  stopped 
and  rose  abruptly  to  her  feet.  "I  have  never  seen 
any  one  look  like  that  before !"  she  said,  under  her 
breath.  "He  looks— awful." 

Mrs.  Cary  nodded. 

"As  though  he  had  seen  a  ghost,"  she  supple- 
mented unsteadily.  "What  can  have  happened?" 

The  horse's  head  was  jerked  around  to  the  com- 
pound gates.  Amidst  a  clatter  of  hoofs  and  in  a 
cloud  of  dust  Stafford  galloped  out  of  sight,  not 
once  turning  to  glance  in  their  direction.  The  two 
women  stood  and  stared  at  each  other,  even  Bea- 
trice for  the  moment  shaken  out  of  her  usual  self- 
control  by  what  she  had  seen.  They  had  no  time 
to  make  any  further  observations,  for  almost  im- 
mediately Travers  came  up  the  steps,  his  sun-hel- 
met in  his  hand.  Whatever  had  happened,  he  at 
least  seemed  unmoved.  The  exceptional  pallor  of 
his  face  had  given  place  to  the  old  healthy  glow. 

"I  have  come  to  drink  Stafford's  share  of  the  tea 
as  well  as  my  own,"  he  said  cheerily.  "You  see, 
Mrs.  Cary,  in  spite  of  your  strict  injunctions,  I  have 
sent  the  poor  fellow  flying  off  on  a  fresh  business 
matter.  He  asked  me  to  excuse  him,  as  he  was  in 
a  great  hurry." 


178  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"So  it  seems !"  Mrs.  Gary  observed,  rather  tartly. 
"He  might  at  least  have  stayed  to  say  good-by." 

"Oh,  well,  you  know  what  an  impulsive  creature 
he  is,"  Travers  apologized.  "Besides,  I  believe  he 
means  to  drop  in  later  on.  Please  don't  punish  me, 
Mrs.  Gary,  for  his  delinquencies." 

The  suggestion  that  Stafford  might  resume  his 
interrupted  visit  later  mollified  Mrs.  Gary  at  once. 

"No,  you  shan't  suffer,"  she  assured  him,  with 
fat  motherliness.  "I  will  go  and  tell  the  servants 
about  tea  at  once." 

The  minute  she  was  out  of  the  room  Travers 
came  over  to  Beatrice's  side.  A  slight  change  had 
taken  place  in  his  expression.  It  reminded  her  in- 
voluntarily of  that  night  in  the  dog-cart  when  for 
an  instant  his  passions  had  forced  him  to  drop  the 
mask. 

"You  and  I  have  every  reason  to  congratulate 
each  other,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "We  can  now 
go  ahead  and  win.  The  road  is  clear  for  us  both." 

"What  do  you  mean — what  have  you  done?" 

"Nothing,"  he  answered,  as  Mrs.  Gary  reentered. 
"You  will  know  in  a  day  or  two.  And  then — well, 
the  game  will  be  in  our  hands,  Miss  Gary." 

Mrs.  Gary,  who  had  caught  the  last  remark, 
looked  quickly  and  suspiciously  from  one  to  the 
other. 

"What's  that  you  are  talking  about?"  she  de- 
manded. "What  game  is  in  your  hands,  Beaty?" 

Travers  smiled  frankly. 

"Miss  Gary  and  I  are  working  out  a  bridge  prob- 
lem," he  explained.  "We  have  just  discovered  a 
solution  to  a  difficulty.  That's  all." 


THE  ROAD  CLEAR  179 

His  smile  deepened  as  he  glanced  across  at  Bea- 
trice, but  there  was  no  response  on  her  grave  face. 
She  half  turned  away  from  him,  and  for  the  first 
time  he  thought  that  the  climate  was  telling  on  her. 
She  looked  white  and  harassed. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IN  WHICH  MANY  THINGS  ARE  BROKEN 

"I  CAN'T  think  what  is  making  Captain  Staf- 
ford so  late,"  Lois  said  to  Mrs.  Carmichael,  who 
was,  as  usual,  knitting  at  some  unrecognizable  gar- 
ment destined  for  a  far-off  London  slum.  "I  won- 
der if  he  has  forgotten  that  to-day  is  the  tourna- 
ment, and  that  he  promised  to  fetch  me." 

"I  hardly  think  he  has  forgotten  the  tournament," 
Travers  remarked  carelessly.  "He  was  speaking 
about  it  to  Miss  Cary  this  morning.  I  expect  he 
will  be  around  soon — and  if  he  fails,  will  I  do  in- 
stead?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  such  a  pleasant  frankness 
in  his  eyes  that  any  awkwardness  she  might  have 
felt  became  impossible,  and  she  could  only  smile 
back  at  him,  grateful  for  the  unchanged  friendship 
which  he  had  retained  for  her. 

"Of  course  you  will  do !"  she  said  gaily.  "But  I 
must  give  him  a  few  minutes'  grace.  It  has  only 
just  struck  four  o'clock." 

The  Colonel  looked  around.  He  had  come  in 
five  minutes  before,  hot  and  tired  from  a  long  ride 
of  inspection,  and  his  family,  knowing  his  small  pe- 
culiarities, had  allowed  him  to  get  over  his  first  ex- 
haustion undisturbed. 

"I  shouldn't  wait  too  long,  little  girl,"  he  said, 
180 


MANY  THINGS  ARE  BROKEN          181 

smiling  kindly.  "I  fancy  Stafford  is  not  at  all  up  to 
the  mark.  I  told  him  to  take  a  day  off  if  he  wanted 
it." 

"Why,  when  did  you  see  him?"  his  wife  asked. 

"This  morning,  of  course,  at  parade.  He  struck 
me  then  as  being  rather  peculiar." 

"Ill  ?"  Lois  exclaimed  with  some  alarm.  She  put  her 
racquet  on  the  table  and  came  and  slipped  her  hand 
through  the  Colonel's  arm.  "You  don't  think  he  is  ill  ?" 
she  asked  earnestly. 

Colonel  Carmichael  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said,  "not  exactly  ill."  He  laid  his  hand 
gently  upon  hers,  so  that  she  could  not  draw  it  back. 
"Let  us  go  outside  and  see  if  he  is  coming,"  he  went 
on. 

The  old  man — for  sorrow  and  physical  weakness 
had  made  him  older  than  his  years — led  the  way 
on  to  the  verandah,  still  holding  Lois'  hand  in  his 
own.  He  could  not  have  explained  the  indefinable 
force  which  drove  him  out  of  his  wife's  presence. 
His  ear  shrank  from  her  hard,  matter-of-fact  voice 
and  undisturbed  optimism.  She  who  had  never 
had  any  mood  but  the  one  energetic  and  untirable 
one,  had  no  comprehension  for  the  changing  shades 
of  his  temper — would,  indeed,  have  rather  scorned 
the  necessity  of  understanding  them.  She  did  not 
believe  in  what  she  called  "vapors,"  and  when  they  ven- 
tured to  cross  her  path  she  swept  them  away  again — 
or  thought  she  did — with  a  none  too  sparing  brush. 

Unfortunately,  there  are  some  characters  who  can 
not  overcome  depression,  be  it  reasonable  or  unreason- 
able, simply  because  some  one  else  happens  to  be  cheer- 
ful. The  source  of  their  melancholy  lies  too  deep,  and 


182  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

the  more  hidden  it  is,  the  more  inexplicable,  the  harder 
it  is  to  be  overcome.  It  is  as  though  a  chord  in  their 
temperament  is  linked  to  the  future,  and  vibrates  with 
painful  presentiment  before  that  which  is  to  come. 
Colonel  Carmichael  was  one  of  these  so-called  sensitive 
and  moody  people — quite  unknown  to  himself.  When 
the  cloud  hung  heavily  over  his  head,  he  said  it  was 
his  liver  or  the  heat,  and  took  his  cure  in  the  form 
of  solitude,  thus  escaping  his  wife's  pitiless  con- 
demnation. And  on  this  afternoon,  yielding  to  his 
instinct,  he  sought  to  be  alone  with  Lois.  Lois 
never  disturbed  him  or  jarred  on  his  worn-out  nerves. 
In  spite  of  her  energy  and  vigor,  there  was  a  side 
of  her  nature  which  responded  absolutely  to  his 
own,  and  with  her  he  could  always  be  sure  of  a 
sympathetic  silence,  or,  what  was  still  more,  a  gentle 
sadness  which  helped  him  more  than  any  overflow 
of  strident  high  spirits. 

For  some  little  time  they  stood  together  arm-in- 
arm, looking  over  the  garden.  The  excuse  that 
they  were  watching  for  Stafford  was  no  more  than 
an  excuse,  for  from  their  position  the  road  was 
completely  hidden  by  the  high  wall  with  which  the 
whole  compound  was  surrounded.  Through  the 
foliage  of  the  trees  the  outline  of  the  old  bungalow 
was  faintly  visible,  and  thither  their  earnest  con- 
templation was  directed.  For  both  of  them  it  was 
something  more  than  a  ruin,  something  more  than 
a  relic  out  of  the  tragic  past.  It  had  become,  above 
all  for  the  Colonel,  a  part  of  their  lives,  a  piece  of 
inanimate  destiny  to  which  they  felt  themselves 
tied  by  all  the  bonds  of  possession.  It  was  theirs, 
and  they  in  turn  were  possessed  by  the  influence  it 


MANY  THINGS  ARE  BROKEN         183 

exercised  over  their  lives.  Their  dear  ones  had  died 
within  its  walls,  and  some  intuition,  feeling  blind- 
ly through  the  lightless  passages  of  the  future,  told 
them  that  its  history  was  not  yet  ended. 

Colonel  Carmichael  bent  down  and  looked  into 
'Lois'  dark  face.  He  had  grown  to  love  her  as  his 
own  child,  and  the  desire  to  protect  and  guard  her 
from  all  misfortune  was  the  one  strong  link  that 
held  him  in  the  world.  Life  as  life  had  disap- 
pointed him,  not  because  he  had  made  a  failure  out 
of  it,  but  because  success  was  not  what  he  had  sup- 
posed it  to  be.  It  is  very  likely  that  his  subsequent 
indifference  to  existence,  coupled  with  a  far  from 
robust  constitution,  would  have  long  since  cut  short 
his  earthly  career  had  it  not  been  for  Lois.  She 
held  him  fast.  He  flattered  himself — as  what  loving 
soul  does  not? — that  he  was  necessary  to  her,  that 
only  his  old  hand  could  keep  her  path  clear  from 
thorns  and  pitfalls.  It  was  the  last  duty  which 
life  had  given  him  to  perform,  and  he  clung  to  it 
gratefully,  never  realizing  the  pathetic  truth  —  the 
saddest  truth  of  all — that  with  all  our  love,  all  our 
heartfelt  devotion  and  self-sacrifice,  we  can  no  more 
shield  our  dear  ones  from  the  hand  of  Fate  than  we 
can  shield  ourselves,  and  that  their  salvation,  if 
salvation  there  be  for  them,  can  only  come  from  their 
own  strength. 

"What  a  grave  face!"  he  said,  with  a  lightness 
he  was  not  feeling.  "Why  so  serious,  dear?  Has 
anything  gone  wrong?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,  nothing  whatever;  on  the  contrary,  I  was 
thinking  how  grateful  for  all  my  happiness  I  ought 


i»4  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

to  feel — and  do  feel.  Would  you  call  me  an  un- 
grateful, discontented  person,  Uncle?" 

"You?    No!    What  makes  you  ask?" 

"I  think  I  am  ungrateful,  only  you  don't  notice 
it,  bcause  I  am  not  more  so  than  most,  and  perhaps 
less  than  a  good  many.  Everybody  has  flashes  of 
self-revelation,  don't  you  think,  when  one  sees  one- 
self and  the  whole  world  in  the  true  proportions 
and  not  as  in  every-day  life.  I  have  just  had  such  a 
revelation.  I  was  feeling  rather  annoyed  that  Cap- 
tain Stafford  should  have  forgotten  the  tournament 
and  so  make  me  late;  and  then  you  said  something 
about  him — you  spoke  as  though  he  were  ill — and 
the  sickening  thought  flashed  through  my  mind: 
suppose  you — or  some  one  I  loved — were  taken  from 
me — died?  Then  things  slipped  into  their  right  size. 
The  petty  woes  and  grievances  which  so  constantly  ir- 
ritate me  became  petty.  I  didn't  care  in  the  least  about 
the  tennis — I  thanked  God  for  you  and  for  your  love." 

He  saw  that  she  was  strangely  moved.  Her  voice 
had  a  rough,  dry  sound  which  he  had  not  heard  be- 
fore, and  her  brows  were  knitted  in  a  plucky  effort 
to  keep  back  the  tears  that  some  inward  pain  had 
driven  to  her  eyes. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  frighten  you,  Lois,"  he  said 
remorsefully.  "How  was  I  to  know  that  you  were 
so  easily  alarmed?" 

She  pressed  his  arm  with  warm  affection. 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  regretted,"  she  said.  "I 
ought  to  be  glad  that  a  little  thing  can  stir  me — 
some  people  need  catastrophe.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  that  sudden  fear,  I  might  have  been  bad-tem- 
pered and  spoiled  the  day  for  myself  and  every  one." 


MANY  THINGS  ARE  BROKEN         185 

"And  then  you  would  have  had  to  add  it  to  the 
long  list  of  days  which  haunt  us  in  later  life,"  he 
added  almost  to  himself,  " — one  of  the  occasions 
for  happiness  which  we  have  wilfully  defaced.  But 
there,  I  think  I  hear  some  one  coming.  It  is  prob- 
ably Stafford.  Won't  you  run  and  meet  him?" 

She  drew  her  hand  quickly  from  his  arm  as 
though  in  answer  to  his  suggestion,  then  hesitated 
and  shook  her  head. 

"I  think  I  will  wait  here  with  you,"  she  said,  look- 
ing up  at  him. 

He  nodded,  and  they  stood  side  by  side  watching 
the  pathway  which  led  around  to  the  highroad  beyond 
the  compound.  Colonel  Carmichael  was  smiling  to 
himself.  His  wife's  sure  conviction  that  the  hour  of 
Lois'  union  with  Stafford  was  not  far  off  had  at  last 
overcome  his  own  inexplicable  doubts  and  objections, 
and  he  even  considered  the  possibility  with  a  kind  of 
satisfaction  not  unmingled  with  pain.  "It  is  well  that 
she  should  have  a  good  strong  man  to  protect  her,"  he 
thought,  conscious  of  age  and  growing  infirmity.  Then 
he  looked  down  at  the  happy  face  beside  him  and  his 
smile  lost  all  trace  of  bitterness.  "She  loves  him,"  was 
the  concluding  thought  that  flashed  through  his  mind 
as  Stafford  appeared  around  the  corner.  He  meant  to 
say  something  in  tender  jest  to  her,  but  the  words 
died  on  his  lips  and  he  felt  that  the  hand  upon  his 
arm  had  tightened.  It  was  the  only  sign  which 
Lois  made  that  a  sudden  change  had  come  over 
her  horizon.  She  said  nothing,  but  in  the  same  mo- 
ment that  the  Colonel's  eyes  rested  on  her  in  half 
tender,  half  teasing  query,  she  knew  instinctively 
that  her  happiness  had  shattered  against  a  rock 


i86  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

which,  hidden  beneath  a  treacherously  calm  sea,  had 
struck  suddenly  at  the  very  foundations  of  her  world. 

Stafford  was  coming  toward  them  slowly,  his 
head  bent.  It  was  not  his  face  which,  like  a  bitter 
frost,  froze  the  overflow  of  her  happy  heart  to  icy 
fear — for  she  could  not  see  it.  It  was  his  attitude, 
his  movements,  above  all  a  terrible  return  of  that 
presentiment  which  already  once  that  day  had  dark- 
ened her  hopeful,  cheery  mood.  Do  what  she 
would,  she  could  not  move  to  meet  him.  She  could 
only  stand  there,  clinging  to  her  guardian's  arm, 
the  smile  of  welcome  stiffening  on  her  pale  lips. 
The  Colonel  was  the  first  to  speak.  He  held  out 
his  disengaged  hand  with  a  frank  movement  of 
pleasure. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Stafford,"  he  said.  "I  was  be- 
ginning to  think  the  fever  had  really  got  hold  of 
you.  What  has  caused  the  delay?" 

"Delay?"  Stafford  repeated  dully,  looking  from 
one  to  the  other. 

Travers,  who  had  joined  them  a  moment  before, 
laughed  with  sincerity. 

"My  good  fellow — surely  you  have  not  forgot- 
ten?" he  said.  "You  promised  to  fetch  Miss  Caru- 
thers  for  the  tournament." 

"Ah,  the  tournament!"  Stafford  passed  his  hand 
quickly  across  his  forehead  like  a  man  who  has 
been  awakened  roughly  from  a  dream.  "Of  course 
— the  tournament.  I  am  awfully  sorry — "  He  turned 
to  Lois  with  a  curious,  awkward  gesture.  " — I'm 
afraid  I  can't  come.  I — I  am  not  very  fit — in  fact 
— "  He  hesitated  and  then  stopped  altogether, 
looking  past  her  with  his  brows  knitted,  his  lips 


MANY  THINGS  ARE  BROKEN          187 

compressed  as  though  in  an  effort  to  keep  back  an 
exclamation  of  pain. 

"You  look  out  of  sorts,"  Travers  agreed  sympa- 
thetically. "Come  and  take  my  chair.  I'll  look 
after  Miss  Caruthers — if  she  will  let  me." 

Lois  shook  her  head.  She  was  watching  Staf- 
ford's ashy  face  and  there  was  a  pity  in  her  eyes 
which  was  deepening  every  instant  to  tenderness. 
All  suffering  awoke  in  her  an  instant  response,  and 
this  man  was  dear  to  her — how  dear  she  only  real- 
ized now  that  the  lines  of  pain  were  on  his  forehead. 

"You  are  not  to  bother,"  she  said  gently,  but 
with  an  unmistakable  decision.  "I  can  manage 
quite  well  by  myself.  I  shall  start  as  soon  as  I 
have  given  Captain  Stafford  a  cup  of  tea.  Sit  down 
— it  will  do  you  good." 

Stafford  made  an  abrupt  gesture  of  refusal.  The 
movement  was  almost  violent,  as  though  for  an  in- 
stant he  had  lost  hold  over  himself.  Then  he  pulled 
himself  together,  looking  her  full  and  steadily  in 
the  face. 

"It  is  very  good  of  you,"  he  said,  "but  indeed  I 
can  not  wait.  I  have  only  come  to  break  a  piece  of 
news  to  you.  As — my  best  friends  here,  I  thought 
it  only  right  that  you  should  be  told  first." 

Travers  rose  with  a  mock  alacrity. 

"Am  I  de  trop,  or  do  I  count  among  tfie  'best 
friends'  ?"  he  asked. 

Stafford  nodded,  but  he  did  not  meet  the  quiz- 
zical eyes  which  studied  his  face.  He  was  still  look- 
ing at  Lois. 

"Please  remain,"  he  said.  "I  wish  you  to  know — 
and  Miss  Cary  wishes  you  to  know  also." 


i88  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"Miss  Gary?"  It  was  the  Colonel's  turn  to  speak. 
His  veined  hand  rested  clenched  on  the  verandah 
balustrade,  and  there  was  a  sudden  sternness  in 
his  attitude  and  voice  which  filled  the  atmosphere 
with  an  electric  suspense.  "What  has  Miss  Gary 
to  do  with  the  matter?" 

"Everything.  Miss  Gary  has  consented  to  be- 
come my  wife." 

He  was  not  looking  at  Lois  now,  but  at  the 
Colonel,  and  then  afterward  at  Travers.  The  lat- 
ter had  turned  away  and  was  gazing  out  over  the 
garden,  his  arms  folded  over  his  broad,  powerful 
chest.  His  silence  was  pointed,  brutally  signifi- 
cant. It  threatened  to  force  an  explanation  which 
each  present  was  ready  to  give  his  life  to  avoid. 
The  Colonel,  Mrs.  Carmichael,  Stafford  himself, 
each  thought  of  Lois  in  that  brief  silence,  and  each 
after  his  own  character  acted  in  obedience  to  the 
instinctive  desire  to  protect  and  uphold  her.  No 
one  looked  at  her.  It  was  as  though  they  were 
afraid  to  read  a  pitiful  self-betrayal  on  her  young, 
mobile  features,  and  with  a  fierce  attempt  at  com- 
posure the  Colonel  turned  to  Stafford.  He  meant 
to  break  the  icy  threatening  silence  with  the  first 
commonplace  which  occurred  to  him,  and  at  the 
bottom  of  his  heart  he  cursed  Travers  for  his  at- 
titude of  unconcealed  scorn.  The  next  instant,  the 
clumsy  words  which  he  had  gathered  together  in 
his  rage  and  distress  were  checked  by  Lois  herself. 
She  advanced  to  Stafford  with  outstretched  hand, 
her  face  grave  but  absolutely  composed. 

"I  congratulate  you,"  she  said.  "I  hope  you  will 
be  very  happy." 


MANY  THINGS  ARE  BROKEN          189 

That  was  all,  but  it  sufficed  to  break  the  spell 
which  held  them  bound.  The  Colonel's  common- 
place passed  unnoticed,  and  Mrs.  Carmichael  mur- 
mured inaudibly.  Only  Travers  remained  silent, 
immovable. 

"Thank  you,"  Stafford  said.  He  had  taken  Lois' 
hand  without  hesitation  and  the  painful  uneasiness 
which  had  at  first  marked  his  manner  had  given 
place  to  a  certain  grave,  decided  dignity.  "Thank 
you,"  he  repeated.  "I  hope  we  shall  be  happy.  In 
the  meantime,  I  must  ask  you  to  keep  our  engage- 
ment private.  My  future  wife  wishes  it  for  the 
present — only  you  were  to  be  told.  So  much  I 
owed  to  you." 

"Yes,  you  owed  us  so  much,"  the  Colonel  said, 
and  there  was  a  faint,  irrepressible  irony  in  his 
tone. 

Stafford  still  held  Lois'  hand.  He  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  that  he  held  it,  and  when  she  gently 
drew  it  away  he  started  and  a  wave  of  dark  color 
mounted  to  his  forehead. 

"I  must  go  now,"  she  said.  "I  shall  be  late  for 
the  tournament,  and  I  am  to  play  with  Captain 
Webb  in  the  doubles.  It  would  not  be  fair  for  me 
to  spoil  everything.  I — I  am  very  glad  and  grate- 
ful that  you  told  us." 

Mrs.  Carmichael  gripped  the  arms  of  her  chair. 
She  saw  more  than  her  husband  saw,  and  there 
was  something  in  that  absolute  self-possession 
which  frightened  her. 

"Please  go  with  Lois,  Mr.  Travers,"  she  said 
sharply,  recklessly.  "I  do  not  want  her  to  go  that 
long  way  alone.  I  should  worry  the  whole  evening." 


190  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"May  I,  Miss  Caruthers?"  Travers  had  turned 
at  last  and  was  looking  at  her.  "You  promised  me 
that  I  might  act  as  substitute.  Do  you  remember?" 
His  tone  was  low,  significant,  full  of  a  profound 
feeling  which  he  knew  she  would  hear  and  under- 
stand. 

She  took  his  extended  arm  and  he  felt  that  she 
clung  to  him  for  support. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  under  her  breath. 

She  went  with  him  to  the  head  of  the  verandah 
steps,  blindly  obeying  his  strong  guidance.  Then 
she  saw  the  Colonel's  face  and  suddenly  she  laughed 
lightly,  cheerfully,  as  though  nothing  in  the  world 
had  happened,  and  her  eyes  flashed  with  an  un- 
conquerable courage. 

"You  are  not  to  bother,"  she  called  back  to  him.  "I 
shall  play  up  and  win.  I  shall  come  back  with  all  the 
prizes." 

He  nodded.  He  understood  and  recognized  the 
fighting  spirit,  and  his  admiration  kindled  and 
mingled  with  a  biting,  cruel  grief.  He  watched 
her  as  she  walked  proudly  erect  at  Travers'  side, 
and  his  heart  ached.  He  understood  what  his  wife 
had  understood  in  the  first  moment  and  what  an 
hour  before  would  have  seemed  impossible  to  them 
both;  he  understood  that  they  were  helpless,  that 
they  could  neither  protect  nor  comfort  the  brave 
young  life  which  had  been  confided  to  their  care. 
Their  love,  great  as  it  was,  lay  useless,  and  his  last 
pride,  his  last  consolation  was  gone.  He  threw  it 
to  the  wrecked  lumber  on  his  life's  road.  He  did 
not  hear  Stafford's  farewell  nor  his  wife's  icy  re- 
sponse. He  stood  there  with  his  hand  clenched  on 


MANY  THINGS  ARE  BROKEN         191 

the  balustrade,  motionless  and  wordless,  until  the 
evening  shadows  had  crept  over  the  silent  garden. 
In  that  hour  he  knew  himself  to  be  an  old  and 
broken  man. 

Many  miles  away  a  dusty,  haggard-faced  rider 
urged  his  weary  horse  over  the  great  highroad.  Danger 
lurked  in  every  shadow,  but  he  heeded  nothing — was 
scarcely  conscious  of  what  went  on  about  him.  He, 
too,  suffered,  but  no  remorse  mingled  itself  with  his 
tight-lipped  grief.  He  had  done  the  right  and — accord- 
ing to  his  code  and  way  of  thinking — the  only  merciful 
thing. 


THE    GREAT    HEALER 

"YES,  it's  a  fine  building,"  Travers  said,  looking 
about  him  with  an  expression  of  satisfaction.  "The 
Rajah  hasn't  spared  the  paint  in  any  way.  You 
see,  it  was  all  native  work,  so  he  killed  two  birds 
with  one  stone — pleased  us  and  gave  the  aborigines 
a  job.  He  has  gone  quite  mad  on  reforms,  poor 
fellow !"  He  laughed,  not  in  the  least  contemptu- 
ously, but  with  a  faint  pity.  "And  it's  all  your  do- 
ing, Miss  Beatrice,"  he  went  on,  turning  to  her  with 
an  elaborate  bow.  "You  should  be  very  proud  of  your 
work." 

She  looked  him  straight  in  the  face.  They  were 
in  the  new  ball-room  of  the  club-house  which  the 
Rajah  of  Marut  had  just  opened.  In  the  adjacent 
tea-room  she  heard  voices  raised  in  gay  discussion, 
but  for  the  moment  they  were  quite  alone. 

"You  give  me  more  credit  in  the  matter  than  I 
deserve,"  she  said.  "Is  that  generosity  on  your 
part,  or — are  you  shirking  your  share  of  the  re- 
sponsibility?" 

"I — shirk  my  share  of  the  responsibility !"  he  ex- 
claimed with  a  good-tempered  lifting  of  the  eye- 
brows. "My  dear  lady,  have  you  ever  known  me 
to  do  such  a  thing?" 

She  smiled  rather  sarcastically. 
192 


THE  GREAT  HEALER  193 

"No,  Mr.  Travers,  but  I  own  that  the  idea  does 
not  seem  to  me  wholly  impossible." 

"And  even  if  you  were  right,  why  should  I  in 
this  particular  case  'shirk  the  responsibility/  as  you 
put  it?  Surely  it  is  not  responsibility  we  have  in- 
curred, but  gratitude." 

She  walked  by  his  side  over  to  the  open  win- 
dows which  looked  out  on  to  the  as  yet  unculti- 
vated and  barren  gardens. 

"The  question  is  this,"  she  said  at  last:  "Does  the 
superficial  gratitude  of  a  crowd  in  any  way  com- 
pensate for  the  fact  that,  in  order  to  obtain  it,  a 
whole  life's  happiness  has  been  incidentally  sacri- 
ficed?" 

"I  know  to  whom  you  are  alluding,"  he  said, 
looking  earnestly  at  her,  "although,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  two  things  have  nothing  to  do  with  each 
other,  except  in  your  imagination.  You  mean  Lois. 
Yes,  of  course  she  has  had  a  hard  time.  Who 
doesn't?  But  it's  rubbish  to  talk  of  a  'life's  happi- 
ness.' In  the  first  place,  there  isn't  such  a  thing- 
nothing  lasts  so  long  as  a  lifetime,  I  assure  you. 
In  the  second,  Lois  has  not  sustained  any  real  loss 
— not  any  which  I  can  not  make  good  to  her." 

"Do  you  imagine  yourself  so  all-sufficient?"  she 
asked. 

"I  have  confidence  in  my  own  powers,"  he  ad- 
mitted. "That  is  the  first  condition  of  success.  I 
believe  that  in  a  few  hours  I  shall  have  Lois  on 
the  road  to  recovery." 

"I  do  not  in  the  least  understand  your  methods," 
Beatrice  said,  "but  they  have  hitherto  been  so  emi- 
nently successful  that  I  suppose  I  ought  not  to 


194  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

question  them.  I  hope  for  the  best.  I  really  was 
rather  sorry  for  Lois — especially  as  she  behaved 
so  well." 

"Are  you  starting  a  conscience,  Miss  Beatrice?" 
Travers  asked  gaily.  "I  rather  suspect  you.  It 
would  be  such  a  typically  feminine  proceeding." 

"There  you  are  quite  wrong,"  she  answered,  with 
a  shade  of  annoyance  in  her  cool  voice.  "A  con- 
science is  an  appendage  which  I  discarded  a  good 
many  years  ago  as  the  luxury  of  respectability. 
As  you  know,  and  as  any  woman  at  the  Station  would 
tell  you,  I  am  not  respectable." 

"Whence  this  anxiety,  then?" 

"It  is  purely  a  practical  one.  You  talk  of  grati- 
tude— do  you  really  think  any  one  is  grateful  to  me 
for — this?"  She  waved  her  hand  toward  the  lofty, 
handsomely  decorated  room  before  her.  "Why,  I 
doubt  if  any  one  remembers  that  I  had  anything 
to  do  with  it.  But  every  one  suspects  me  of  hav- 
ing bewitched  Stafford  into  becoming  a  deserter — 
thanks  to  Mrs.  Carmichael's  tongue — and  every  one 
feels  a  just  and  holy  indignation.  I  doubt  whether 
they  really  care  a  rap  about  poor  Lois,  and  indeed 
I  could  accuse  one  or  two  of  a  certain  satisfaction ; 
but  the  matter  has  given  them  a  new  whip  with 
which  to  beat  us  out  of  Marut." 

"But  you  will  not  be  beaten  out  of  Marut,"  Trav- 
ers said,  a  smile  passing  over  his  fresh  face.  "You 
have  got  a  far  too  firm  footing.  The  woman  who 
has  bagged  the  finest  catch  in  the  Station  has  noth- 
ing more  to  fear." 

"You  mean  Captain  Stafford?" 

"I  do." 


THE  GREAT  HEALER  195 

"Then,  if  you  have  no  objection,  we  will  leave 
that  subject  alone." 

"By  all  means,  if  you  wish  it,"  he  agreed,  some- 
what taken  aback.  "But,  between  friends,  you 
know,  one  does  not  need  to  be  so  delicate." 

Her  hands  played  idly  with  the  handle  of  her 
silk  parasol. 

"It  is  not  a  matter  of  delicacy,"  she  said,  " — at 
least,  not  altogether.  It  would  be  rather  silly  to 
begin  with  that  sort  of  thing  at  my  time  of  life, 
wouldn't  it?  But — you  don't  know  for  certain  that 
I  shall  marry  Captain  Stafford." 

"My  dear  lady!  You  have  accepted  him!"  Travers 
exclaimed. 

She  looked  at  him,  her  clear  hazel  eyes  flashing 
with  momentary  fun. 

"It  is  very  bad  policy  to  rely  upon  what  a  woman 
says  further  back  than  twenty-four  hours,"  she  warned 
him. 

For  once  he  remained  serious. 

"That  may  be  true,  but  it  is  sometimes  neces- 
sary to  warn  her  that  first  thoughts  are  best." 

"Now,  what  do  you  mean?" 

He  folded  his  arms  over  his  broad  chest. 

"Miss  Beatrice,"  he  said,  appearing  to  ignore  her 
question,  "do  you  remember  some  time  ago  my 
telling  you  that  we  were  like  two  partners  at  a 
game  of  bridge  ?" 

"I  remember  very  well." 

"Well,  we  are  still  partners,  though  the  game  is 
nearing  its  end.  As  a  rule  I  am  for  straight,  above- 
board  play,  but  there  are  moments  when  a  man  is 
strongly  tempted  to  cheat." 


196  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"Haven't  we  cheated  all  through?"  she  inquired, 
with  a  one-sided  smile. 

"By  no  means.  We  have  finessed,  that's  all.  Just 
at  present  I  feel  impelled  to — well,  give  you  a  hint 
under  the  table." 

"Why?" 

"Miss  Beatrice,  more  or  less  I  stand  in  the  posi- 
tion of  a  skilled  and  rich  player  who  has  tempted  a 
less  wealthy  partner  into  a  doubtful  game.  If  my 
plans  fail,  I  can  look  after  myself;  but  I  shouldn't 
like  to  get  you  in  a  mess.  If  I  give  you  a  hint,  will 
you  keep  counsel?" 

"I  suppose  I  must." 

"Well,  then,  it's  just  this.  Your  mother  has  in- 
vested the  greater  part  of  her  money  in  the  Marut 
Company.  I  did  not  want  her  to — I'll  say  that  for 
myself — but  she  has  the  speculating  craze,  and 
nothing  would  stop  her.  Of  course  the  mine  will 
be  an  immense  success — but  if  it  isn't,  I  should 
like  to  see  you,  as  my  partner,  well  out  of  reach 
of  the  results." 

"Now  I  understand.    Thank  you." 

"As  to  the  Rajah,  I  think  you  had  better  let  him 
run  before  things  go  too  far.  I'm  afraid  he  has  got 
one  or  two  silly  ideas  in  his  head.  You  had  better 
make  your  engagement  public." 

"Thank  you."  She  looked  perfectly  calm  and 
collected.  The  red  had  died  out  of  her  cheeks  and 
left  them  their  pale  rose,  which  not  even  the  hot- 
test Indian  sun  had  been  able  to  wither.  Still,  her 
tone  had  something  in  it  which  startled  even  the  self- 
possessed  Travers. 

"By  Jove!"  he  began,  "are  you  angry — ?" 


THE  GREAT  HEALER  197 

She  passed  over  the  question  before  he  had  time 
to  finish  it. 

"I  am  going  into  the  garden  to  look*  for  my 
mother,"  she  said.  "The  band  is  just  beginning.  Au 
revoir." 

Travers  watched  her  curiously  and  admiringly 
as  she  walked  across  the  parquetry  flooring  to  the 
door.  It  requires  a  good  deal  of  self-possession  and 
carriage  to  walk  gracefully  under  the  scrutiny  of 
critical  eyes,  and  this  self-possession  and  carriage 
were  the  final  clauses  to  Beatrice's  claim  to  physical 
perfection.  There  was  a  natural  dignity  in  her 
bearing  and  an  absolute  balance  in  all  her  move- 
ments which  Travers  had  never  seen  before  com- 
bined in  one  woman.  At  first  sight  an  observer 
called  her  pretty,  and  then,  as  one  by  one  the  per- 
fect details  unfolded  themselves  to  a  closer  criti- 
cism, beautiful.  He  was  never  disappointed,  and 
even  the  most  carping  and  envious  of  Marut's  fe- 
male contingent  had  failed  to  find  her  vulnerable 
point.  So  they  had  turned  with  more  success  to 
her  character,  and  proceeded  there  with  their  work 
of  destruction.  Her  beauty  they  left  unquestioned. 

Travers  often  asked  himself — and  asked  himself 
especially  on  this  afternoon — why,  apart  from  prac- 
tical considerations,  he  had  not  fallen  in  love  with 
her  instead  of  Lois.  He  liked  beautiful  women,  as 
he  liked  all  beautiful  things,  and  Lois  had  no  real 
pretensions  to  beauty.  Was  it,  perhaps,  as  he  had 
said,  that  her  honesty  and  genuine  heart-goodness 
had  drawn  him  to  her?  Of  course  he  had  pre- 
tended that  it  was  so.  He  knew  that,  in  company 
with  all  true  women,  she  was  susceptible  to  that 


198  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

form  of  flattery  where  other  compliments  merely 
disgusted,  and  he  had  made  good  use  of  his  knowl- 
edge. He  had  often  laughed  to  himself  at  the 
feminine  craze  for  salvaging  lost  souls,  but  he  had 
never  taken  it  seriously,  not  even  with  Lois.  Was 
there  any  truth  in  the  assertions  that  he  had  made 
to  her,  more  than  he  knew?  The  idea  amused  him 
immensely,  and  also  drew  his  attention  back  to  his 
previous  conversation  with  Beatrice  Gary.  He 
shook  his  head  whimsically  in  the  direction  she 
had  taken. 

"I  don't  care  what  you  say,"  he  thought,  "you 
are  getting  a  conscience.  Now,  I  wonder  whom 
you  caught  it  from?  Not  from  me,  I'll  be  bound." 

He  laughed  out  loud,  and  shaking  himself  up 
from  his  half-lounging  attitude  against  the  window 
casement,  he  proceeded  to  follow  in  Beatrice's  foot- 
steps. At  the  door  he  was  met  by  three  men — the 
Rajah,  Stafford,  and  a  new-comer  whom  he  did  not 
recognize  and  for  the  moment  scarcely  noticed.  He 
had  a  quick  and  sympathetic  intelligence,  which 
was  trained  to  read  straight  through  men's  eyes 
into  their  minds,  and  in  an  instant  he  had  classed 
and  compared,  not  without  a  pang  of  real  if  very 
objective  regret,  the  two  familiar  faces  and  their 
expressions.  Gloom  and  sunshine  jostled  each  other. 

On  the  one  hand,  Nehal  Singh  had  never  looked  bet- 
ter than  he  did  then.  The  old  film  of  dreamy  contem- 
plation was  gone  from  his  eyes,  which  flashed  with  en- 
ergy and  purpose;  the  face  was  thinner  and  in  places 
lined ;  the  figure,  always  upright,  had  become  more 
muscular.  From  a  merely  handsome  man  he  had  de- 
veloped into  a  striking  personality,  released  from  the 


THE  GREAT  HEALER  199 

bonds  of  an  enforced  inactivity  and  an  objectless  des- 
tiny. By  just  so  much  Stafford  had  altered  for  the 
worse.  His  character  was  too  strong  and  rigid  to  al- 
low an  absolute  breakdown.  He  still  carried  himself 
well ;  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  as  far  as  his  duty  was 
concerned,  he  was  as  hard-working  and  conscientious 
as  he  had  ever  been,  but  no  strength  of  will  had 
been  able  to  hinder  the  change  in  his  face  and  ex- 
pression. He  looked  years  older.  There  was  grey 
mixed  with  the  dark  brown  of  his  hair;  the  eyes 
were  hollow  and  lightless;  the  cheeks  had  painfully 
sunken  in.  A  friend  returning  after  a  two  months' 
absence  would  have  said  that  he  had  gone  through 
a  sharp  and  very  dangerous  illness ;  but  Marut, 
who  knew  that  he  had  not  been  ill,  wondered  exceed- 
ingly. 

They  wondered  all  the  more  because,  though  noth- 
ing was  known  for  certain,  they  suspected  a  rupture 
in  the  relations  between  Stafford  and  the  Carmi- 
chael  family,  and  Beatrice  was  recognized  as  the  un- 
doubtable  cause.  Her  engagement  with  Stafford  had 
been  kept  secret,  but  the  Marut  world  had  its  ideas  and 
was  puzzled  to  distraction  as  to  why  he  seemed  to  shun 
her  society  and  had  become  morose  and  taciturn.  "It 
is  his  conscience,"  said  the  busybodies,  whose  inexperi- 
ence on  the  subject  of  conscience  excused  the  mistaken 
diagnosis.  Travers  knew  better.  He  felt  no  sort  of  re- 
gret, but  he  was  rather  sorry  for  Stafford  and  some- 
times Stafford  felt  his  unspoken  sympathy  and  shrank 
from  it. 

"We  have  been  looking  all  over  the  place  for  you, 
Travers,"  he  said,  after  the  first  greeting  had  been 
exchanged.  "Nicholson  arrived  here  last  night,  and 


200  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

he  has  already  been  on  a  tour  of  inspection.  He 
wants  to  know  the  man  who  has  built  the  modern 
settlement." 

Travers  turned  to  the  new-comer  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

"Glad  to  meet  you,"  he  said  cordially ;  "but  please 
don't  run  off  with  the  idea  that  I  have  anything  to 
do  with  the  innovations.  I  am  no  more  than  the 
artisan.  The  Rajah  is  the  moving  spirit." 

Nehal  Singh's  expression  protested. 

"If  money  is  the  moving  power,  you  may  be 
right,"  he  said;  "but  if,  as  I  think,  the  conception 
is  everything,  then  the  credit  is  wholly  yours." 

"You  have  been  the  energizing  spirit,"  Travers  re- 
torted. 

"Well,  we  will  divide  the  honors.  And,  after  all,  it 
does  not  matter  in  the  least  who  has  done  it,  so  long 
as  it  is  done." 

"Well  spoken !"  Adam  Nicholson  said.  "If  that's 
your  principle,  I'm  not  surprised  at  the  marvels 
you  have  brought  about." 

Nehal  Singh  turned  to  the  speaker. 

"You  think  the  changes  are  for  the  good?"  he 
asked  eagerly. 

"Without  a  doubt.  The  new  Bazaar  is  a  model  for 
Indian  civilization." 

"And  the  mine?" 

"Excuse  me — is  that  part  of  the  reform?  I  under- 
stood that  it  was  merely  a  speculation." 

The  prince's  brows  contracted  with  surprise. 

"It  is  part  of  the  reform.  I  wish  to  give  my  peo- 
ple a  settled  industry.  There  is  no  idea  of — per- 
sonal gain." 


THE  GREAT  HEALER  201 

"I  see.  Well,  I  don't  know  about  that  yet.  I 
haven't  looked  into  the  matter ;  I  must  to-morrow — 
that  is,  no,  I  won't.  You  know," — with  a  move- 
ment of  good-tempered  impatience — "I've  been  sent 
here  on  a  rest-cure,  and  I'm  not  to  bother  about 
anything.  Please  remind  me  now  and  again.  I  al- 
ways forget." 

Stafford  smiled  grimly. 

"You  don't  look  as  though  you  knew  what  rest 
is,"  he  said. 

Travers,  who  stood  a  little  on  one  side,  felt  there 
was  some  truth  in  the  criticism.  During  the  brief 
conversation  between  Nehal  Singh  and  Nicholson 
he  had  had  ample  opportunity  to  study  the  two  men 
and  to  glean  the  esthetic  pleasure  which  all  beauty 
gave  him.  Both  represented  the  best  type  of  their 
respective  races,  and,  curiously  enough,  this  per- 
fection seemed  to  obliterate  the  differences.  Travers 
could  not  help  thinking,  as  he  glanced  from  one  to 
the  other,  that,  had  it  not  been  for  the  dress,  it 
would  have  been  difficult  to  decide  who  was  the 
native  prince  and  who  the  officer.  Nehal  Singh's 
high  forehead  and  clean-cut  features  might  have 
been  those  of  a  European,  and  his  complexion,  if 
anything,  was  fairer  than  that  of  the  sunburnt  man 
opposite  him.  It  was  doubtful,  too,  which  of  the 
two  faces  was  the  more  striking.  Travers  felt  him- 
self irresistibly  drawn  to  the  new-comer.  The  bold, 
aquiline  nose,  the  determined  mouth  under  the 
close-cut  moustache,  the  broad  forehead  with  the 
white  line  where  the  military  helmet  had  protected 
from  the  sun,  the  black  hair  prematurely  sprinkled 
with  grey — these,  together  with  the  well-built  fig- 


202  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

ure,  made  him  seem  worthy  of  the  record  of  hero- 
ism and  ability  with  which  his  name  was  associated. 

"If  you  want  a  rest,  your  only  hope  is  with  the 
ladies,"  Travers  said,  as  he  turned  with  Nicholson 
toward  the  garden.  "They  are  the  only  people  who 
haven't  got  mines  and  industrial  progress  on  the  brain. 
Are  you  prepared  to  be  lionized,  by  the  way  ?  We  are 
all  so  heartily  sick  of  one  another  that  a  new  arrival  is 
bound  to  be  pursued  to  death." 

"I  don't  care  so  long  as  I  get  in  some  decent  ten- 
nis and  polo,"  Nicholson  answered  cheerfully.  "Not 
that  I've  starved  in  that  respect.  I  got  my  men  up 
at  the  Fort  into  splendid  form.  We  made  our  net 
and  racquets  ourselves,  and  rolled  out  some  sort 
of  a  court.  It  was  immense  fun,  though  the  rac- 
quets weren't  all  you  might  have  wished,  and 
the  court  had  a  most  disconcerting  surface."  He 
laughed  heartily  at  his  recollections,  and  Travers 
laughed  with  him. 

"No  wonder  the  men  worshiped  you,"  he  said,  and 
then  saw  that  the  remark  had  been  a  mistake. 

"They  didn't  worship  me,"  was  the  sharp  answer. 
"That  sort  of  thing  is  all  rubbish.  They  respected 
me,  and  I  respected  them — that's  all." 

"It  seems  to  me  a  good  deal,"  Travers  observed. 

"It  is  a  good  deal,  in  one  sense,"  Nicholson  re- 
turned. "It  is  the  only  condition  under  which  na- 
tive and  European  can  work  in  unity." 

Nehal  Singh  and  Stafford  were  walking  a  little 
ahead,  and  Travers  thought  he  saw  the  Rajah  hesi- 
tate as  though  about  to  join  the  conversation.  Al- 
most immediately,  however,  Nicholson  changed  the 
subject. 


THE  GREAT  HEALER  203 

"I've  had  no  time  to  look  up  my  old  friends,"  he 
said  to  Travers.  "Perhaps  you  could  tell  me  some- 
thing about  them.  Colonel  Carmichael  is,  of  course, 
still  here.  I  had  a  few  words  with  him  this  after- 
noon. Do  you  know  if  that  little  girl,  Lois  Caru- 
thers,  is  with  him,  or  has  she  gone  back  to  Eng- 
land?" 

"No,  she  is  still  in  Marut." 

"That's  good.  When  I  was  a  young  lieutenant, 
she  and  I  were  great  pals.  Of  course  she  is  grown- 
up now,  but  I  always  think  of  her  as  my  wild  little 
comrade  who  led  me  into  the  most  hairbreadth  ad- 
ventures." He  smiled  to  himself,  and  Travers,  look- 
ing sharply  at  him,  felt  that  there  was  a  wealth  of 
memories  behind  the  pleasant  grey  eyes. 

"Things  change,"  he  said  sententiously. 

"Do  they?  Well,  perhaps;  though  the  change,  I 
find,  lies  usually  in  oneself,  and  I  never  change.  Is 
she  married?" 

"No— not  yet." 

He  saw  that  Nicholson  was  on  the  point  of  an- 
swering, asking  another  question,  and  he  went  on 
hurriedly : 

"She  is  not  here  this  afternoon.  If  you  are 
anxious  to  meet  her,  how  would  it  be  if  I  ran  over 
to  the  Colonel's  bungalow  and  persuaded  her  to 
come?  I  dare  say  I  could  manage  it." 

"Excellent,  if  you  wouldn't  mind.  Or  I  might  go 
myself.  We  shall  have  any  amount  to  say  to  each 
other." 

There  was  a  scarcely  noticeable  pause  before 
Travers  answered : 

"I  think  it  would  be  better  if  I  went.    I  know  a 


204  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

short  cut,  and  could  get  there  and  back  with  Miss 
Caruthers  in  half  an  hour.  Would  you  mind  tell- 
ing the  Colonel  what  I  have  done?" 

"Certainly.  In  the  meantime,  I'll  have  a  talk  with 
the  Rajah  about  this  mining  business.  He  seems 
to  have  an  exceptional  individuality,  and — " 
"Remember  the  doctor!"  Travers  warned  him. 
"Oh,  yes,  thanks !  I  forgot  again.  By  the  way, 
when  you  see  Lois — Miss  Caruthers — tell  her  for 
me,  the  cathedral  still  lacks  the  chief  spire,  but  other- 
wise is  getting  on  very  nicely." 
"I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand." 
"No,  but  I  dare  say  she  will.  Good-by." 
Travers  borrowed  a  buggy  from  one  of  the  other 
guests,  and  started  impetuously  on  his  self-imposed 
errand.  He  had  lied  about  the  short  cut,  and  about 
the  half-hour.  He  would  have  lied  up  to  the  hilt 
if  it  had  been  required  of  him,  because  his  instinct 
— that  instinct  which  had  saved  him  untold  times 
from  blundering — warned  him  that  danger  was  at 
hand.  It  told  him  that  it  was  now  or  never,  and 
the  realization  filled  him  with  a  reckless  resolve  which 
was  ready  to  ride  down  all  principles  and  honor.  He 
was  still  sufficiently  master  of  himself  to  hide  the  storm ; 
it  showed  itself  only  in  so  far  that,  when  he  stood  be- 
fore Lois,  he  seemed  more  moved  and  agitated  than  she 
had  ever  seen  him.  She  had  just  returned  from  a  long 
and  lonely  ride,  and  was  about  to  retire  to  change  her 
white  habit,  when  he  came  upon  her  in  the  entrance 
hall.  Had  he  not  found  her  himself,  she  would  have 
refused  to  see  him,  for  she  dreaded  his  message.  She 
felt  that  he  had  come  to  urge  her  attendance  at  the 
opening  ceremony,  and  old  fondness  for  social  pleas- 


THE  GREAT  HEALER  205 

ures  of  that  kind  had  given  place  to  dislike.  It  was 
the  only  change  that  sorrow  had  wrought  upon  her 
character.  Otherwise  she  was  the  same  as  she  had 
always  been.  For  one  week  she  had  suffered  some- 
thing like  despair,  and  then  the  brave  spirit  in  her 
despised  itself  for  its  weakness,  and  set  to  work 
on  the  rebuilding  of  her  life  on  new  foundations. 
To  all  appearances,  she  had  succeeded  admirably  in 
her  task.  There  was  no  drooping  hopelessness  in 
her  attitude  toward  the  world.  And  if  beneath  the  sur- 
face there  lay  hidden  the  dangerous  flaw  of  purpose- 
lessness,  no  one  knew — at  least,  so  she  believed. 

To  her  surprise,  Travers  made  no  mention  of  the 
subject  she  dreaded.  He  took  her  hand  in  his,  and 
led  her  into  the  shady  drawing-room.  She  made 
no  attempt  to  protest,  nor  did  she  offer  him  any 
formal  greeting.  She  was  oppressed  and  hypno- 
tized by  the  conviction  that  a  crisis  was  about  to 
break  over  her  head  which  no  power  of  hers  could 
avert.  He  did  not  let  her  hand  go.  He  still  held 
it  between  his  own  as  they  stood  opposite  each 
other,  and  she  felt  that  he  was  trembling. 

"Lois,"  he  said,  "Lois,  don't  think  me  mad.  There 
are  limits  to  a  man's  endurance.  I  have  held  out 
so  long  that  I  can  hold  out  no  longer.  I  have  come 
because  I  must  speak  to  you  alone.  Will  you  let 
me?" 

She  knew  now  what  was  coming,  and  she  made 
a  gentle  effort  to  free  herself. 

"Mr.  Travers,  will  you  think  me  very  conceited 
if  I  say  that  I  know  what  you  have  come  to  tell  me  ?" 
she  said,  with  an  earnestness  which  did  not  conceal 
her  anxiety.  "Will  you  forgive  me  if  I  ask  you 


2o6  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

not  to  tell  me?  It  would  be  hard  to  have  to  spoil 
our  friendship.  It  has  been  a  great  deal  to  me." 

"Does  that  mean  that  you  don't  care?" 

"I  did  not  say  that.  As  proof  that  I  do  care  I 
will  give  you  my  whole  confidence,  I  will  be  ab- 
solutely honest  with  you.  Will  you  think  me  very 
low-spirited  if  I  tell  you  that  a  man  still  holds  a 
place  in  my  life — a  man  who  cares  nothing  for  me? 
I  ought  to  forget  him — my  pride  should  make  it 
possible,  and  yet  I  can  not,  and  somehow  I  do  not  think 
I  ever  shall." 

"Isn't  that  rather  a  hard  punishment  for  him, 
Lois?" 

"For  him?" 

"I,  too,  will  be  honest.  I  know  whom  you  mean 
and  I  ask  you — does  Stafford  look  a  happy  man? 
He  looks  like  a  man  weighed  down  by  a  heavy 
burden.  I  believe  that  burden  is  the  knowledge 
that  he  has  sinned  against  you,  that  in  his  heedless- 
ness,  folly,  what  you  will,  he  has  spoiled  your  life. 
Until  he  feels  that  you  have  regained  your  happi- 
ness he  will  never  be  able  to  find  his  own." 

A  spasm  of  pain  passed  over  her  face. 

"You  mean — I  stand  in  his  way?" 

"I  believe  so.  And  I  am  sure  of  one  thing — for 
your  own  sake  as  well  as  for  his,  you  must  shake  off 
your  old  affection  for  him,  and  how  better  than 
through  the  cultivation  of  a  new  and  stronger  love? 
My  dear  little  girl,  you  couldn't  pretend  that  all  the 
happy  hours  we  have  spent  together  count  for  noth- 
ing. You  say  my  friendship  has  been  a  great  deal 
to  you.  What  else  is  friendship  but  the  sanest, 
most  lasting,  and  noblest  part  of  love?  What  surer 


THE  GREAT  HEALER  207 

basis  was  ever  the  union  between  a  man  and  woman 
built  upon?  I  know  what  you  would  say — it  has 
come  too  soon.  You  have  only  just  pulled  yourself 
up  from  a  hard  blow,  and  you  feel  that  you  must 
have  time  to  right  yourself  and  all  the  hopes  that 
were  bowled  over  with  you.  My  dear,  I  understand 
that — God  knows,  I  understand  too  well — but  have 
pity  on  me.  Think  how  I  have  waited,  and  how 
time  has  drifted  on  and  on  for  me.  Must  I  wait  the 
best  years  of  my  life?  Won't  you  let  me  add  the 
whole  of  my  love  to  time's  cure  for  healing  the  old 
wound?" 

There  was  no  pretense  in  his  pleading,  no  pre- 
tense in  the  passion  with  which  his  voice  shook. 
And  because  it  was  genuine,  it  carried  her  forward 
on  the  wave  of  powerful  feeling  toward  his  will. 

''I  do  care  for  you,"  she  said,  with  a  strong  ef- 
fort to  appear  calm.  "As  a  friend  you  are  very 
dear  to  me,  and  you  are  no  doubt  right  to  class 
friendship  so  highly.  But  I  can  not  pretend  that  I  love 
you.  I  do  not  love  you.  And  a  woman  should  love  the 
man  she  marries." 

He  let  her  hands  fall. 

"And  so  you  are  going  to  let  your  life  remain 
empty,  little  woman?" 

"Empty?"  she  echoed. 

"Yes,  empty.  Will  it  prove  the  strength  of  my 
love  for  you  if  I  tell  you  that  it  has  given  me  the 
power  to  look  straight  into  your  heart?  How  many 
times  have  I  read  there  the  thought :  'Of  what  use 
is  it  all?  My  life  has  no  object,  no  end  or  aim.  No 
one  needs  me  now.'  Lois,  one  man  needs  you — 
needs  you  perhaps  as  much  as  he  loves  you.  That 


208  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

man  is  myself.  If  you  say  you  have  done  nothing 
in  the  world,  look  into  the  soul  that  I  open  out  to 
you  and  to  you  alone.  There  is  not  a  generous, 
honest  deed  or  thought  which  has  not  its  origin  in 
you.  For  your  sake  I  have  beaten  down  the  devil 
under  my  feet — I  have  tried  to  live  as  I  meant  to 
live  before  the  time  when  I,  too,  found  that  there 
was  no  object  in  it  all,  that  no  one  cared  whether 
I  was  good  or  bad.  This  much  have  you  changed 
in  me — it  has  been  your  unconscious  work.  Are 
you  going  to  leave  the  task  which  surely  God  has 
left  for  you  to  accomplish?" 

He  had  touched  the  chord  in  her  which  could  only 
give  one  response,  and  he  knew  it.  There  lay  the 
canker  which  made  her  energy  and  cheerfulness  a 
mere  task  to  hide  the  real  disease.  Half  uncon- 
sciously she  had  loved  Stafford  and  half  uncon- 
sciously she  had  built  her  life  upon  him.  When 
he  had  been  taken  from  her,  the  foundations  had 
been  shaken,  and  she  found  herself  crippled  by  a 
horrible  sense  of  emptiness  and  purposelessness.  In 
England  she  would  have  flung  herself  into  some  in- 
tellectual pursuit,  as  other  women  do  who  have 
suffered  heart  shipwreck.  But  she  was  in  India, 
and  in  India  intellectual  food  is  scarce.  Pleasure 
is  the  one  serious  occupation  for  the  womenkind; 
and  though  pleasure  may  be  a  good  narcotic  for 
some,  for  'Lois  it  was  worse  than  useless.  She 
needed  one  being  for  whom  she  could  bring  sacri- 
fices and  endless  patient  devotion,  and  there  was 
no  one.  Her  two  guardians  lived  for  her,  and  that 
was  not  what  she  hungered  after  with  all  the 
thwarted  energy  of  her  soul.  She  wanted  to  work 


THE  GREAT  HEALER  209 

for  somebody,  not  to  be  worked  for — and  no  one 
needed  her,  no  one  except  this  man.  She  looked 
at  him.  She  saw  that  her  long  silence  was  torture 
to  him;  she  saw  that  he  was  suffering  genuinely, 
and  her  heart  went  out  to  him  in  pity.  Pity  is  a 
woman's  invariable  undoing.  How  many  women — 
sometimes  happy,  sometimes  unhappy,  according 
to  the  rulings  of  an  inscrutable  Fate — have  mar- 
ried, partly  out  of  flattered  vanity,  but  chiefly  be- 
cause they  are  good-hearted,  and  labor  under  the 
mistaken  conviction  that  a  man's  happiness  rests 
on  their  decision?  And  in  this  particular  instance 
Lois  was  honestly  attached  to  Travers.  She  felt 
that  to  lose  him  would  be  to  lose  a  friend  whom  she 
could  ill  spare.  Yet  a  blind  instinct  forced  her  to 
a  last  resistance. 
"I  do  not  love  you,"  she  repeated,  almost  desperate- 

ly. 

"I  do  not  ask  for  that  now,  because  I  know  that 
it  will  come.  I  ask  you  to  be  my  lifelong  friend 
and  helper.  Remember  your  promise,  Lois!  Has 
not  the  time  come  when  we  need  each  other — when 
no  one  else  is  left?"  He  took  her  hand  again.  He 
felt  that  she  was  won. 

"If  you  need  me — I  care  for  you  enough  to  try 
and  love  you  as  my  husband." 

"Thank  you,  Lois!" 

His  inborn  tact  and  knowledge  of  the  human 
character  stood  him  again  in  good  stead.  He  made 
no  violent  demonstration  of  his  triumph  and  happi- 
ness, thus  breaking  roughly  into  a  region  which 
as  yet  for  him  was  dangerous  ground.  As  he  had 
done  months  before,  when  the  road  to  success  had 


210  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

seemed  blocked,  he  lifted  her  hand  reverently  and 
gratefully  to  his  lips. 

Thus  it  was  that  Captain  Adam  Nicholson  waited 
patiently  but  in  vain  for  Travers'  return  with  his 
old  playfellow.  As  one  by  one  the  Rajah's  guests 
took  their  departure  in  order  to  prepare  for  the 
evening's  festivities,  he  gave  up  his  last  hope. 

"I  suppose  it  was  too  late,"  he  thought  ruefully. 
"Or — she  was  so  young,  and  it's  many  years  ago — 
maybe  she  has  forgotten." 

It  was  not  till  long  afterward  that  he  knew  how 
unconsciously  his  first  supposition  had  brushed  past 
the  truth. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

FATE 

TRAVERS  had  correctly  described  the  new  Ma- 
rut  club-house  as  a  fine  building  on  which  the  paint 
had  been  laid  with  a  generous  hand.  The  orig- 
inal modest  design  had  been  rejected  as  unworthy, 
and  Nehal  Singh  had  ordered  the  erection  of  a  mini- 
ature copy  of  his  own  palace,  the  ball-room  being 
line  for  line  a  reproduction  of  the  Great  Hall,  save 
that  the  decorations,  which  in  the  palace  were  in- 
imitable, had  been  carried  out  with  dignified  sim- 
plicity, and  that  some  necessary  modernization  had 
been  added.  Gold  and  white  predominated,  where 
in  the  original,  precious  stones  glistened ;  the  brack- 
ets for  the  torches  were  transformed  into  small  ar- 
tistic lamps  which  had  been  ordered  from  Madras; 
and  from  the  ceiling  a  heavy  chandelier  added  bril- 
liancy to  the  shaded  light.  The  central  floor  had 
been  left  free  for  dancing,  but  the  slender  pillars 
ranged  on  either  side  formed  separate  little  alcoves 
banked  with  flowers  and  plants.  It  was  in  one  of 
these  refuges  from  the  whirr  and  confusion  of  gay 
dresses  and  white  uniforms  that  Stafford  took  up 
his  watch.  He  had  arrived  late,  thanks  to  Travers, 
who  had  detained  him  at  his  bungalow  in  a  long 
and  earnest  conversation.  The  two  men  had  sub- 
sequently driven  together  to  the  club,  and  had  fur- 

211 


212  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

ther  been  hindered  on  their  way  by  a  curious  ac- 
cident. Just  where  the  road  passed  an  unprotected 
ravine,  a  native  had  sprung  out  from  some  bushes 
and,  having  waved  his  arms  wildly,  disappeared. 
The  horse  had  immediately  taken  fright,  and  for  a 
moment  the  car  and  its  occupants  stood  in  danger 
of  being  flung  headlong  down  the  precipice.  Staf- 
ford's strength  and  nerve  had  saved  the  situation, 
but  the  incident  had  effectually  put  an  end  to  their 
conversation,  and.  now  for  the  first  time  Stafford 
found  himself  alone  and  at  liberty  to  bring  some 
order  into  his  troubled  thoughts. 

He  was  not,  as  Marut  supposed,  a  conscience- 
stricken  man,  but  a  man  with  a  diseased  con- 
science, his  sense  of  duty  and  responsibility  de- 
veloped to  abnormities  which  left  him  no  clear 
judgment.  He  had  broken  with  Lois  because  he 
loved  her  and  because  there  seemed  no  other  way 
of  shielding  her  from  the  most  terrible  blow  that 
could  fall  upon  any  human  life — judging  by  the 
only  standard  he  knew,  which  was  his  own.  He 
had  asked  Beatrice  to  be  his  wife  because  it  cut 
the  last  link  and  because  he  knew — Travers  had 
told  him — that  the  Station  had  long  since  coupled 
their  names  together  in  a  way  that  cast  a  deeper 
shadow  about  Beatrice's  reputation. 

"It's  no  one's  fault,  old  fellow,"  Travers  had  said 
sympathetically.  "You  meant  no  harm,  but  you 
were  often  with  her,  and  that  old  fiend,  Mrs.  Gary, 
has  told  every  one  that  you  'were  as  good  as — ' 
And  then  you  know  what  the  people  are  here.  When 
they  see  that  things  are  at  an  end  between  you  and 
Lois  they  will  dig  their  knives  deeper  into  Miss 


FATE  213 

Gary,  without  giving  her  the  credit  of  having  won 
her  game.  She  is  fairly  at  every  one's  mercy  here. 
I  am  sorry  for  Lois,  but  the  other  is  worse  off,  ac- 
cording to  my  lights." 

Stafford  had  said  nothing.  Goaded  by  Travers' 
words  and  blinded  by  the  catastrophe  which  had 
broken  upon  him,  he  had  acted  without  thought, 
without  consideration,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
obeying  the  behests  of  a  headlong  impulse.  He 
had  asked  Beatrice  to  be  his  wife,  and  to-night  was 
to  put  the  final  seal  upon  their  alliance.  Again  it 
was  Travers  who  had  spoken  the  decisive  word. 

"A  secret  engagement  is  a  piece  of  folly,"  he  said, 
"and  Miss  Gary  is  mad  to  wish  it.  For  your  sake 
as  well  as  hers,  everything  must  be  above-board. 
Or  are  you  shirking?" 

Stafford  had  made  a  hot  retort.  It  was  not  in 
the  scope  of  his  character  to  turn  back  on  a  road 
which  he  had  marked  out  for  himself,  and  he  waited 
now  for  Beatrice  with  the  unshaken  resolution  of 
a  man  who  believes  absolutely  in  himself  and  his 
own  code.  He  waited  even  with  a  certain  impa- 
tience. Shortly  before  he  had  seen  her  standing 
at  the  Rajah's  side,  a  fair  and  beautiful  contrast  to 
his  eastern  splendor,  and,  somehow,  in  that  mo- 
ment, he  had  understood  Travers'  warning  as  he 
had  not  understood  it  before.  She  was  to  be  his 
wife,  she  was  to  bear  his  name,  and  it  was  his  duty 
to  protect  her  if  need  be  from  herself.  He  was 
about  to  leave  the  alcove  to  go  in  search  of  her  when 
she  pushed  aside  the  hangings  and  entered.  The 
suddenness  of  her  appearance  and  something  in  her 
expression  startled  him.  He  did  not  notice  how 


214  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

radiantly  beautiful  she  was  nor  the  taste  and  rich- 
ness of  her  dress.  He  saw  only  that  there  was  a 
curious  look  of  pain  and  fear  in  her  eyes  which 
warmed  his  friendship  and  aroused  in  him  afresh 
the  desire  to  shield  her  from  the  malice  of  the  eyes 
that  watched  them. 

"Have  I  been  a  long  time  coming?"  she  asked, 
taking  the  chair  he  offered  her.  "I  am  so  sorry. 
The  Rajah  kept  me." 

Her  voice  sounded  breathless  and  there  was  a 
forced  lightness  in  her  tone  which  did  not  escape 
him.  He  bent  a  little  over  her. 

"It  does  not  matter,"  he  said.  "You  look  troubled. 
Is  there  anything  wrong?" 

She  laughed. 

"Nothing." 

He  hesitated,  and  then  went  on  slowly: 

"There  is  one  matter  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
about,  Beatrice.  It  is  the  matter  of — our  engage- 
ment. I  think  you  are  wrong  to  wish  it  kept  secret. 
I  think  it  can  only  bring  trouble  and  misunderstand- 
ing. Will  you  not  allow  me  to  tell  every  one  ?" 

The  white  satin  slipper  stopped  its  regular  tat- 
too on  the  rugged  floor.  She  lifted  her  face  to  his 
and  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes. 

"You  think  it  was  foolish  and  unreasonable  to 
wish  no  one  to  know?  But  I  had  my  reasons — very 
good  reasons.  I  wanted  the  retreat  kept  clear  for 
you." 

"Retreat— for  me?" 

"Yes,  for  you.  Captain  Stafford,  why  "did  you 
ask  me  to  be  your  wife?" 

He  drew  himself  stiffly  erect. 


FATE  215 

"I  told  you  at  the  time,"  he  said  sternly.  "I  was 
quite  honest.  I  told  you  that  the  best  a  man  can 
bring  the  woman  he  marries  is  not  in  my  power  to 
give  you.  It  was — shipwrecked  some  time  ago." 

"Not  so  very  long  ago,"  she  corrected. 

"That  does  not  matter.  The  point  is  that  I  believe 
it  in  my  power  to  make  you  happy — at  any  rate,  it 
would  always  be  my  ambition  to  see  you  so;  and 
therein  I  should  no  doubt  regain  a  great  deal  that  I 
have  lost — " 

"But  you  do  not  love  me,  Captain  Stafford?" 

"I  have  just  said  that  I  have  lost  the  power  of 
loving." 

For  a  moment  she  was  silent,  her  jeweled  hands  rest- 
ing wearily  on  the  arms  of  her  chair,  her  eyes  sunk  to 
the  ground. 

"You  made  me  an  honorable  proposal,  Captain  Staf- 
ford," she  said  at  last.  "You  are  an  honorable  man 
and  inspire  me  with  the  desire  to  be  honorable  also. 
Won't  you  take  back  your  freedom  while  there  is  yet 
time?" 

"No." 

"There  are  others — good  women  among  whom  you 
would  find  one  who  would  love  you  as  you  deserve.  I 
do  not  love  you.  All  I  can  bring  is  a  certain  respect 
and  friendship — that  is  all." 

"I  am  grateful  for  so  much,"  he  said.  He  was 
thinking,  of  Lois,  and  his  voice  sounded  hard  and 
compressed. 

"If  I  marry  you  it  will  be  because  I  must." 

He  nodded. 

"Yes,  I  am  aware  of  that." 

"Aware  of  that?"  she  said,  looking  up  into  his 


216  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

haggard  face.  "How  should  you  be  'aware  of  that?' 
Is  my  private  life  so  public  then?" 

"You  misunderstand  me,"  he  said,  striving  to 
cover  up  what  he  felt  to  have  been  a  wanton  piece 
of  brutality.  "I  only  mean,  you  must  for  the  same 
reason  that  I  must — because  circumstances  have 
linked  us  inseparably  together,  and  because — " 

He  broke  off.  The  tall  figure  of  the  Rajah  had 
passed  the  alcove  and  he  had  seen  Beatrice  sink 
back  in  her  chair.  As  the  figure  moved  on  she 
broke  into  one  of  her  harsh,  jarring  laughs. 

"Good  heavens,  Captain  Stafford,"  she  exclaimed, 
"your  arguments  haven't  a  leg  to  stand  on !  What 
are  you  marrying  me  for?" 

"I  have  tried  to  explain,"  he  said,  swinging  him- 
self clumsily  up  to  the  great  lie  of  his  life — "be- 
cause I  need  you — and  I  hope  you  will  come  to  need 
me." 

"You  mean  I  do  need  you?  Well,  perhaps  I  do!" 
She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 
"There !  I  seal  the  bargain.  I  warned  you  but  you 
would  not  be  warned.  Vogue  la  galere!  Tell  the  whole 
world — it  is  better  so." 

He  took  the  small  firm  hand  and  pressed  it.  At 
the  same  moment  he  saw  the  Rajah  approaching 
for  a  second  time. 

"I  will  leave  you  now,"  he  said  in  a  low,  earnest 
whisper.  "I  fancy  the  Rajah  wishes  to  speak  with 
you.  It  would  be  a  good  opportunity  to  tell  him 
that  we  are  engaged." 

She  drew  back  her  hand  hastily. 

"Yes— of  course  I  shall  tell  him." 

Stafford  bowed  ceremoniously,  making  way  for 


FATE  217 

Nehal  Singh.  As  he  did  so,  he  saw  Lois  enter  the 
hall  at  Mrs.  Carmichael's  side.  The  two  women 
bowed  to  him,  the  elder  in  a  way  which  he  had  learned 
to  understand.  He  drew  aside  out  of  their  path, 
avoiding  the  genuine  kindness  which  Lois'  eyes  ex- 
pressed for  him. 

"Pray  God  you  believe  the  worst  of  me!"  was 
the  thought  that  flashed  through  his  mind.  "Pray 
God  I  have  taught  you  to  forget!" 

Nehal  Singh  had  meanwhile  taken  Stafford's 
place  at  Beatrice's  side.  As  he  had  entered  the  al- 
cove she  had  made  an  effort  to  pass  out,  but  her 
eyes  had  met  his,  and  the  look  in  them  had  held 
her  rooted  to  the  ground.  The  color  died  and  deep- 
ened by  turns  in  her  cheeks,  and  the  hand  that 
clasped  the  ivory  fan  shook  as  it  had  never  shaken 
before  in  the  course  of  a  life  full  of  risks  and  dan- 
gers. But  then  no  man  had  ever  looked  at  her  as 
this  man  did.  She  had  outstared  insolence  and 
snubbed  sentimentality.  She  had  never  had  to 
face  such  an  honest,  pure-hearted  worship  as  this 
young  prince  brought  and  laid  silently  at  her  feet. 
No  need  for  him  to  tell  her  that  she  embodied  every 
virtue  and  every  perfection  of  which  human  nature 
is  capable.  She  knew  it,  and  the  knowledge  broke 
the  very  backbone  of  her  daring  and  stirred  to  life 
in  her  sickened  soul  emotions  which  she  could 
scarcely  recognize  as  her  own. 

He  stood  quite  close  to  her,  but  he  did  not  touch 
her.  In  all  their  acquaintance  he  had  never,  except 
when  he  had  taken  her  hand  in  farewell,  made  any 
attempt  to  draw  nearer  to  her  than  the  strictest  eti- 
quette allowed.  Other  men — men  whom  she  hard- 


218  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

ly  knew — had  taken  the  opportunity  which  a  ride 
or  drive  offered  to  kiss  her,  and  had  been  offended 
and  surprised  at  her  contemptuous  rebuff.  (What 
girl  in  Marut  objected  to  being  kissed?)  This  man 
had  treated  her  as  though  she  were  holy,  an  ob- 
ject to  be  respected  and  protected,  not  to  be  handled 
as  a  common  plaything;  and  her  heart  had  gone 
out  to  him  in  gratitude  and  admiration.  But  to- 
night his  very  respect  was  painful  to  her.  For  a 
moment  she  would  have  given  the  best  years  of  her 
life  to  know  that  he  despised  her  and  that  all  was 
over  between  them;  and  then  came  the  revulsion, 
the  wild  longing  to  hold  him  to  her  as  though  his 
trust  in  her  were  her  one  salvation. 

"Lakshmi !"  he  said,  in  a  voice  broken  with  feel- 
ing. "Lakshmi,  you  are  the  most  perfect  woman 
God  ever  sent  to  earth.  Every  hour  I  grow  to 
know  you  better  I  feel  how  pale  and  empty  of  all 
true  beauty  my  life  was  until  you  came.  How 
can  I  thank  you  for  all  you  have  given  me?" 

"Hush !"  she  said.  "You  must  not  talk  to  me  like 
that.  You  must  not." 

"Why  should  I  not  tell  you  what  is  true?" 

"Because — oh,  don't  you  see?" — she  gave  a  short, 
unsteady  laugh — "we  English  don't  tell  people  ev- 
erything that  is  true.  A  man  does  not  say  that  sort  of 
thing  to  a  woman — " 

"To  one  woman !"  he  said. 

"Yes,  to  one  woman,  perhaps.  But  I — I — "  She 
hesitated,  the  truth  struggling  feebly  to  her  lips. 
She  felt  herself  turn  sick  and  faint  as  she  looked 
into  his  earnest  face.  She  knew  what  answer  he 
had  ready  for  her,  and  though  it  would  have 


FATE  219 

brought  the  end  for  which  she  was  praying,  she 
sought  with  all  her  strength  to  keep  it  back.  All 
the  brutality  in  her  character,  her  indifference  to 
the  feelings  and  opinions  of  others,  failed.  She 
dreaded  the  change  that  would  come  into  his  eyes; 
she  did  not  believe  that  she  could  bear  it.  To- 
morrow would  be  time  enough.  But  was  it  any 
longer  in  her  power  to  determine  when  it  would 
be  time  enough?  There  was  an  expression  in  Nehal 
Singh's  face  which  told  her  that  he  had  already  de- 
cided, and  that  the  reins  had  suddenly  slipped  from 
her  hands  into  his. 

"Rajah — "  she  began,  wildly  seeking  for  some 
inspiration  which  would  give  her  back  control  over 
herself  and  him.  But  the  triviality  died  on  her  lips 
as  the  truth  had  died.  A  shrill  cry  broke  above 
the  dying  waltz,  and  the  Rajah  and  Beatrice,  startled 
by  its  piercing  appeal,  turned  from  each  other  and 
confronted  a  catastrophe  which  overshadowed,  and  for 
the  moment  obliterated,  their  own  threatening  fate. 

The  dancers  had  already  retired  to  the  sitting- 
out  alcoves.  Only  one  figure  occupied  the  floor, 
and  that  figure  was  Stafford's.  He  was  crossing 
the  room  and  had  reached  the  center  when  the  cry 
had  been  uttered.  The  amazed  and  startled  watch- 
ers saw  Lois  rush  toward  him  and  with  an  incred- 
ible strength  and  rapidity  thrust  him  to  one  side. 
A  second  later — it  scarcely  seemed  a  second — the 
immense  golden  chandelier  crashed  with  a  sound 
like  thunder  on  to  the  very  spot  where  he  had  been 
standing.  A  moment's  uproar  and  horrified  con- 
fusion ensued.  The  place,  plunged  in  a  half-dark- 
ness, seemed  filled  with  dust  and  flying  fragments, 


220  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

and  people  hurrying  backward  and  forward,  scarcely 
knowing  what  had  happened  or  what  had  been  the  ex- 
tent of  the  accident.  Stafford's  voice  was  the  first  to 
bring  reassurance  to  the  startled  crowd. 

"It's  all  right !"  he  shouted.  "We  are  both  safe, 
thank  God!" 

They  saw  that  he  was  deadly  pale,  though  other- 
wise calm  and  collected.  In  the  first  moment  of 
alarm  he  had  instinctively  caught  Lois  in  his  arms, 
as  though  to  shield  her  from  some  fresh  danger, 
but  immediately  afterward  he  had  let  her  go,  and  she 
stood  apart  amidst  the  debris  of  the  wrecked  chande- 
lier, trembling  slightly,  but  firmly  refusing  all  assist- 
ance. 

"I  owe  my  life  to  you,"  Stafford  said  to  her,  with 
awkward  gratitude. 

"You  do  not  need  to  thank  me,"  she  answered  at 
once.  "I  did  what  any  one  else  would  have  done 
in  my  place.  I  saw  it  coming." 

"How  did  it  happen?"  The  question  came  from 
Nehal  Singh,  who  had  forced  his  way  to  her  side. 
"I  can  not  understand  how  such  an  accident  was  pos- 
sible." 

There  was  an  anxiety  in  his  manner  which  seemed 
to  increase  during  Lois'  brief  hesitation. 

"I  hardly  like  to  say,"  she  said  at  last,  in  a 
troubled  voice.  "I  could  not  believe  my  eyes,  and 
even  now  it  seems  like  a  dream.  Or  a  shadow 
might  have  deceived  me.  I  don't  know — " 

"Please  tell  me  what  you  saw,  or  thought  you 
saw!"  the  Rajah  begged  earnestly. 

"I  seemed  to  see  the  chandelier  being  lowered," 
she  said,  with  an  irrepressible  shudder,  "and  then  from 


FATE  221 

a  dark  hole  in  the  ceiling  a  hand  appeared — a  black 
hand  with  a  knife — " 

One  of  the  women  moaned,  and  there  was  afterward 
a  silence  in  which  a  wave  of  formless  fear  surged  over 
the  closed  circle.  The  men  exchanged  questioning 
glances;  to  which  no  one  had  an  answer. 

"That's  just  the  way,"  Beatrice  heard  some  one 
behind  her  say.  "We  dance  on  the  crust  of  a  vol- 
cano or  under  a  threatening  avalanche.  Sooner  or 
later  the  one  gives  way  or  the  other  falls.  There 
is  no  real  safety  from  these  devils." 

Meanwhile  Nehal  Singh  had  approached  the 
wreckage  and  was  examining  the  crown,  to  which  a 
piece  of  gilded  rope  and  chain  were  still  attached. 
One  or  two  of  the  men  were  engaged  in  stamping 
out  the  candles,  which  still  sputtered  feebly  on  the 
floor.  The  rest  stood  about  uncomfortably,  hyp- 
notized by  an  indefinable  alarm. 

"I  fear  you  did  not  dream,  Miss  Caruthers,"  the 
Rajah  said  at  last.  "The  rope  has  been  cut — the 
chain  unlinked.  Some  wicked  harm  was  intended 
to  us  all." 

"Not  to  us  all,"  Stafford  observed  coolly.  "I 
think  you  will  admit,  Rajah,  that  whoever  the  mur- 
derer was,  he  would  have  chosen  a  more  advan- 
tageous moment  if  he  had  intended  general  dam- 
age. My  life  was  the  one  aimed  at,  and  I  am  all 
the  more  convinced  that  I  am  right,  because  this  is  the 
third  time  within  twenty-four  hours  that  I  have  escaped 
by  a  miracle  from  accidents  which  were  not  accidental." 

The  Rajah  started  sharply  around. 

"How? — what  do  you  mean?"  he  demanded. 

"Yesterday  my  boat  on  the  river  was  plugged. 


222  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

To-day  a  native  tried  to  frighten  my  horse  over 
the  ravine.  This" — pointing  to  the  chandelier — 
"is  the  third  attempt." 

"Do  you  know  of  any  one  who  could  have  a 
grudge  against  you?" 

"No." 

"Or  against — your  family?" 

There  was  a  slight  hesitation  in  Stafford's  man- 
ner. He  frowned  as  a  man  does  who  has  been 
pressed  with  an  unpleasant  question. 

"That  is  more  possible,"  he  admitted. 

Nehal  Singh  made  no  further  remark.  He  stood 
staring  straight  ahead  into  the  half-darkness,  and 
every  eye  in  that  uneasy  assembly  fixed  itself  on 
his  face,  as  though  striving  to  read  from  his  ex- 
pression the  conclusion  to  which  his  mind  was  grop- 
ing. For  his  exclamation  after  Stafford's  first  an- 
nouncement had  betrayed  that  a  sudden  suspicion 
had  flashed  before  him,  and  they  waited  for  him 
to  take  them  into  his  confidence.  But  they  waited 
in  vain.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  their  exis- 
tence, and  the  silence  grew  tense  and  painful.  All  at 
once,  Mrs.  Berry,  who  was  clinging  to  her  husband's 
arm,  uttered  a  scream,  which  acted  like  a  shock  of 
electricity  on  the  overstrained  nerves  of  those  who 
stood  about  her. 

"Look!  Look!"  she  cried.  "Miss  Caruthers  is  on 
fire !  Oh,  help !  Help !" 

She  turned  and  rushed  like  a  frightened  sheep 
to  the  back  of  the  hall,  crying,  incoherent  warnings 
to  those  who  tried  to  bar  her  headlong  flight.  It 
was  a  catastrophe  upon  catastrophe.  How  it  hap- 
pened no  one  knew — possibly  some  half-extinct 


FATE  223 

candle  had  done  the  work.  In  an  instant  Lois' 
white  silk  dress  had  become  a  sheet  of  flame  which 
mounted  with  furious  rapidity  to  her  horror-strick- 
en face.  In  such  disasters  it  is  only  the  question 
of  a  fraction  of  a  second  as  to  who  recovers  his 
wits  first.  Almost  on  the  top  of  Mrs.  Berry's 
heedless  scream  Beatrice  had  sprung  toward  the 
doomed  girl — with  what  intention  she  hardly  knew 
— but  before  she  was  in  reach  of  danger  Adam 
Nicholson  thrust  her  to  one  side  and,  folding  Lois 
in  his  arms,  flung  her  to  the  ground. 

"A  rug — a  shawl — anything!"  he  shouted. 

Mrs.  Carmichael  tore  the  long  wrap  from  her 
shoulders,  and  a  dozen  willing  hands  lent  what  as- 
sistance first  occurred  to  them.  But  Nicholson 
fought  his  enemy  alone. 

"Stand  back!"  he  commanded.    "Stand  back!" 

They  obeyed  him  instinctively,  and  stood  help- 
less, watching  the  short,  desperate  struggle  between 
life  and  death.  Scarcely  a  moment  elapsed  before 
the  flames  died  down — one  last  tight  drawing  to- 
gether of  Mrs.  Carmichael's  wrap,  and  they  were  ex- 
tinct. Nicholson  stumbled  to  his  feet,  the  frail,  uncon- 
scious burden  in  his  arms. 

"Please  make  way,"  he  said.  "I  do  not  think 
she  is  badly  hurt,  but  she  must  be  taken  home  at  once. 
Stafford,  go  and  see  if  the  carriage  is  there." 

His  own  face  was  singed,  and  one  of  his  hands 
badly  burnt,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  notice  his  own 
injuries.  Colonel  Carmichael,  who  had  entered  the 
hall  with  him  at  the  moment  of  the  accident,  helped 
to  clear  the  road.  His  features  in  the  half-light 
were  grey  with  the  fear  of  those  last  few  moments. 


224  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"You  have  saved  our  little  girl !"  he  said  broken- 
ly to  Nicholson.  "You  have  saved  her  life.  God 
bless  you  for  it,  Adam !" 

"That's  all  right,"  was  the  cheerful  answer.  "You 
know,  Colonel,  Lois  and  I  were  always  helping 
each  other  out  of  scrapes,  and  I  expect  it  was  my 
turn."  He  looked  down  at  the  pale  face  against 
his  shoulder,  and  there  was  an  unconscious  tender- 
ness in  his  expression  which  touched  the  shaken 
old  man's  heart. 

"She  will  be  glad  to  hear  it  was  you,  Adam,"  he 
said.  "You  were  always  her  favorite." 

They  had  reached  the  great  doors,  which  the  Rajah 
himself  had  flung  wide  open,  when  Travers  sprang 
up  the  steps  to  meet  them.  He  was  dishevelled, 
breathless,  and  exhausted  as  though  with  hard  run- 
ning, and  his  eyes,  as  they  flashed  from  one  to  the 
other  of  the  little  procession,  were  those  of  a  mad- 
man. 

"What  has  happened?"  he  demanded  frantically. 
"I  was  outside  with  Webb.  What  has  happened? 
— Oh !"  He  caught  sight  of  Lois  in  Nicholson's 
arms,  and  his  cry  was  high  and  hysterical,  like  a 
frightened  woman's. 

Stafford  seized  him  by  the  shoulder  and  dragged 
him  back  into  the  now  empty  hall. 

"Control  yourself!"  he  said  roughly.  "Don't  be- 
have like  a  fool.  She  is  all  right,  but  they  won't 
want  you  interfering,  especially  if  you  can't  keep 
your  head." 

"They  won't  want  me !"  Travers  exclaimed,  star- 
ing at  him.  He  then  broke  into  a  discordant  laugh. 
"Why,  my  good  Stafford,  they'll  have  to  have  me, 


FATE  225 

whether  they  want  me  or  no.  Lois  is  mine — mine, 
I  tell  you ;  and  that  fellow,  Nicholson,  had  better  look 
to  himself—" 

"You  are  beside  yourself,  Travers.  Nicholson 
saved  her  life.  What  do  you  mean  by  saying  she 
is  yours?" 

"She  is  to  be  my  wife.  Who  can  have  more  right 
to  her  than  I  have  ?" 

The  two  men  stared  at  each  other  through  the 
semi-darkness.  One  by  one  the  lights  at  the  side 
of  the  hall  were  extinguished  by  the  softly-moving 
servants.  The  hushed  voices  of  the  departing  guests 
died  away  in  the  distance. 

"Your  wife !"  Stafford  repeated  slowly.  "Since 
when  is  that,  Travers?" 

"Since  this  afternoon.    Let  me  pass !" 

Stafford  made  no  effort  to  detain  him.  He  stood 
on  one  side,  and  Travers  hurried  down  the  steps. 
A  minute  later  he  was  driving  his  trap  down  the 
avenue  at  a  pace  which  boded  danger  for  himself 
and  for  any  who  dared  to  cross  his  path. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

FALSE  LIGHT, 

THE  way  to  the  new  Bazaar  lay  to  the  right  of 
the  mine  through  a  forest  clearing,  and  was  one  of 
Marut's  most  beautiful  roads.  Of  late,  increased 
traffic  had  held  the  English  pleasure-seekers  from 
their  once  favorite  haunt,  and  in  this  early  eve- 
ning hour  the  bullock  wagons  had  not  as  yet  begun 
their  journeyings  to  and  from  the  residential  quar- 
ter to  the  Bazaar,  and  the  road  was  pleasantly 
quiet  and  peaceful.  Hitherto  Beatrice  had  kept  her 
thoroughbred  at  a  constant  and  exhausting  canter, 
but  here,  against  her  resolution,  she  pulled  up  to 
a  walk  and  let  the  cool  scented  air  from  the  pines 
blow  gently  and  caressingly  against  her  hot  cheeks. 

"This  is  one  of  the  moments  which  Fate  herself 
can  not  take  from  us,"  she  said  to  her  companion. 
"It  is  perhaps  a  very  brief  moment,  but  it  is  un- 
clouded. We  are  just  glad  and  happy  to  be  alive 
in  such  a  lovely  world,  and  all  the  outward  circum- 
stances which  make  our  lot  hard  and  bitter  are  for- 
gotten. Great  and  little  worries  are  put  on  one  side, 
and  we  can  feel  like  children  to  whom  the  past  and  fu- 
ture is  nothing  and  the  present  everything." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  Nehal  Singh  answered, 
"and  the  hours  spent  with  you  are  always  those  which 
no  one  can  ever  take  from  me." 

226 


FALSE  LIGHT  227 

She  bent  over  her  horse  and  stroked  the  glossy 
coat  with  her  gloved  hand.  Then  she  remembered 
that  she  would  never  ride  him  again,  and  the 
thought  pained  her.  It  was  his  horse,  and  this  was 
their  last  ride  together,  though  he  did  not  know  it. 
She  was  going  to  tell  the  truth — or  something  like 
the  truth — now.  No,  not  now — later  on,  when  they 
turned  homeward.  Then  she  would  tell  him,  and  it 
would  be  well  over.  But  there  was  no  hurry.  All  that 
was  still  in  the  future.  The  moment  was  hers — a  happy 
moment  full  of  unalloyed  charm  such  as  she  had  never 
known  in  her  barren,  profitless  life.  She  was  not  go- 
ing to  throw  it  away  unless  he  forced  her,  and  hitherto 
he  had  made  no  attempt  to  lead  the  conversation  out  of 
the  usual  channels. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  they  were  alone  to- 
gether since  the  eventful  evening  at  the  club,  and 
in  the  intervening  week  enough  had  happened  to 
give  them  food  for  intercourse.  By  mutual  con- 
sent, the  accident  of  the  chandelier  was  not  touched 
upon.  Nehal  Singh,  though  promising  to  investigate 
the  matter  thoroughly,  had  shown  a  distress  out 
of  proportion  to  his  responsibility,  and  it  was  under- 
stood that  for  some  reason  or  another,  the  subject 
was  painful  to  him.  On  the  other  hand,  he  had 
shown  a  lively  and  warm-hearted  interest  in  Lois' 
recovery.  She  had  sustained  little  more  than  a  se- 
vere shock,  and  he  had  been  constant  in  his  atten- 
tions, as  though  striving  to  atone  for  an  injury 
he  had  unwittingly  done  her.  The  accident  had  also 
served  to  deepen  his  interest  in  Adam  Nicholson. 

"That  is  a  man !"  he  had  said  to  Beatrice,  as  they 
had  spoken  of  his  presence  of  mind,  and  his  en- 


228  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

thusiasm  had  rung  like  a  last  echo  of  his  old  boyish- 
ness. "I  can  not  understand  why  Travers  seems  to  dis- 
like him  so." 

Beatrice  had  made  no  reply.  She  had  her  own 
ideas  on  the  matter,  having  a  quick  eye  for  expres- 
sions, and  she  knew  that  the  news  of  Lois'  engage- 
ment had  been  a  shock  both  to  Nicholson  and  to 
the  Carmichaels.  Travers  was  one  of  those  men 
whom  the  world  receives  with  open  arms  in  society, 
but  repudiates  at  the  entrance  to  the  family  circle; 
and  of  this  fact  Travers  himself  was  bitterly  con- 
scious. And,  on  the  other  hand,  there  was  Nichol- 
son, the  accepted  and  cherished  friend,  to  whom 
the  world  looked  with  unreserved  respect  and  de- 
served admiration.  It  was  not  altogether  surpris- 
ing that  the  two  men  had  little  in  common,  and  on 
Travers'  side  there  was  added  a  certain  amount  of 
satisfied  spite.  His  instinct  told  him  that  he  had 
won  Lois  at  the  critical  moment,  and  that  another 
twenty-four  hours  would  have  seen  her  safe  under 
the  reawakening  influence  of  an  old,  only  half-for- 
gotten friendship;  and  Nicholson,  too,  felt  dimly  that 
a  cunning  and  none  too  scrupulous  hand  had  shat- 
tered a  secret  hope  that  he  had  cherished  from  his 
first  year  in  India.  Altogether,  there  was  a  stiff- 
ness between  them  which  the  world  was  quick  to 
recognize  without  understanding.  But  Beatrice  had 
made  her  observations,  and,  as  it  has  been  said,  had 
come  to  a  definite  conclusion.  Her  interest  in  Lois  was 
now  thoroughly  aroused,  and  the  vision  of  a  dark,  suf- 
fering little  face  against  a  white  pillow  recurred  to  her 
as  she  walked  her  horse  beside  Nehal  Singh's.  As 


FALSE  LIGHT  229 

they  passed  out  of  the  wood,  her  companion  lifted  his 
whip  and  pointed  in  front  of  them. 

"Look!"  he  said. 

She  raised  her  hand  to  the  rim  of  her  helmet, 
shading  her  eyes  from  the  dazzling  sun,  and  gazed 
in  the  direction  which  he  indicated. 

"Why !"  she  exclaimed,  smiling,  "  a  model  world, 
Rajah!" 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "that  is  what  I  have  tried 
to  make  it.  I  do  not  think  plague  or  disease  will 
ever  find  firm  foothold  here,  and  one  day  my  people 
will  learn  to  do  for  themselves  what  I  do  for  them. 
They  are  as  yet  no  more  than  children  who  have 
to  be  taught  what  is  good  and  bad.  There  is  the 
chief  overseer." 

A  respectable  looking  Hindu,  who  stood  at  the  door 
of  his  hut,  salaamed  profoundly.  It  was  as  though  he 
had  given  some  secret  signal,  for  in  an  instant  the 
broad  street  was  alive  with  dark,  scantily  clad  figures, 
who  bowed  themselves  to  the  dust  and  raised  cries  of 
welcome  as  the  Rajah  and  his  companion  picked  their 
way  among  them.  It  was  a  picturesque  scene,  not 
without  its  pathos ;  for  their  joy  was  sincere  and  their 
respect  heartfelt.  Beatrice  glanced  at  Nehal  Singh.  A 
flush  had  crept  up  under  his  dark  skin,  and  his  eyes 
shone  with  suppressed  enthusiasm. 

"Is  their  homage  so  precious  to  you  ?"  she  asked. 

"It  is  a  sign  that  I  have  power  over  them,"  he 
answered,  "and  that  is  precious  to  me.  Without 
power  I  could  not  do  anything.  They  believe  that 
I  am  God-sent,  and  so  they  obey  blindly.  Other- 
wise, these  changes  would  have  been  impossible."  He 


230  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

paused,  smiling  to  himself;  then,  with  a  new  amuse- 
ment in  his  dark  eyes,  he  looked  at  Beatrice.  "My  peo- 
ple are  not  fond  of  an  over-abundance  of  clothing,"  he 
observed.  "Do  you  consider  a  change  in  that  respect  es- 
sential ?" 

Beatrice  stared  at  him,  and  then,  seeing  that  he 
was  laughing,  she  laughed  with  him. 

"Certainly  not!  If  the  poor  wretches  knew  what 
we  poor  Europeans  have  to  suffer  with  our  artificial 
over-abundance,  their  obedience  would  stop  short  at 
such  a  request.  What  made  you  think  of  such  a 
thing?" 

"It  was  Mr.  Berry  who  spoke  to  me  about  it.  He 
said  I  ought  to  insist  on  them  having  what  he  called 
decent  attire.  It  seems  he  had  been  using  his  in- 
fluence in  vain,  and  was  very  unhappy  about  it.  He 
said  as  much  that — that  trousers  were  the  first  and 
most  necessary  step  toward  salvation."  He  looked 
quickly  at  her  to  see  if  she  was  offended  at  his  out- 
spokenness, but  she  only  laughed. 

"Poor  Mr.  Berry  is  a  Philistine,"  she  said.  "He 
can't  help  thinking  absurdities  of  that  sort." 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  what  you  mean  by 
a  Philistine?"  he  asked. 

"A  Philistine  is  a  person  who  sees  everything  in 
its  wrong  proportions,"  she  answered.  "He  mis- 
takes the  essential  for  the  unessential,  and  vice 
versa.  He  can  never  recognize  the  beauty  in  art  or 
nature,  because  he  can  never  get  any  further  than 
the  unpleasant  details.  One  might  call  him  a  men- 
tal earth-worm  who  has  only  the  smallest  possible 
outlook.  Mr.  Berry,  for  instance,  has  never,  I  feel 
sure,  felt  the  charm  of  India  and  its  people.  He  is 


FALSE  LIGHT  231 

always  too  overpowered  by  the  fact  that  the  cloth- 
ing" is  too  scanty  for  his  idea  of  decency.  You  must 
not  take  him  as  an  example  of  European  taste,  al- 
though you  will  find  only  too  many  like  him." 

"I  am  glad  to  have  your  reassurance,"  Nehal  Singh 
replied.  "Mr.  Berry  angered  me,  and  I  can  well 
understand  that  he  has  no  influence  among  my  peo- 
ple. They  are  very  innocent  in  their  way,  and  they 
can  not  understand  where  the  wickedness  lies.  Nor 
do  I  wish  them  to  understand.  It  does  not  seem  to 
me  necessary."  His  mouth  settled  in  a  new  and 
rather  stern  line.  "I  shall  order  Mr.  Berry  to  leave 
them  in  peace." 

She  smiled  at  this  little  outburst  of  autocracy. 

"You  do  not  wish  your  people  to  become  Chris- 
tians?" she  asked. 

"I  shall  not  interfere  in  their  religion,"  was  the 
quick  answer — "or,  at  any  rate,  I  shall  force  noth- 
ing. If  my  people  believe  truly  and  earnestly  in 
their  gods,  I  shall  not  destroy  their  belief,  for  then 
they  will  believe  in  nothing.  And  the  belief  is 
everything.  As  for  me" — his  voice  sank  and  grew 
suddenly  gentler — "I  am  different.  I  have  been  led 
by  a  light  which  I  must  follow." 

After  a  moment's  thoughtful  silence  he  changed 
the  subject  and  began  pointing  out  to  her  the  im- 
provements he  had  brought  about  in  the  native 
dwellings.  Even  Beatrice,  who  had  seen  little  of  the 
old  conditions,  felt  that  the  change  was  almost 
incredible.  A  conservative,  indolent  and  super- 
stitious people  had  within  a  few  months  been  trans- 
ferred from  loathsome  dirt  and  squalor  into  a  "mod- 
el village"  such  as  an  English  workman  might  have 


232  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

envied.  Nehal  Singh  showed  her  the  houses  at 
the  end  of  the  Bazaar  which  belonged  to  the  chief 
men,  or  those  responsible  to  him  for  the  cleanliness 
and  order  of  the  community.  Small,  prettily  planted 
gardens  separated  one  low  dwelling  from  the  other, 
and  each  bore  its  stamp  of  individuality,  as  though 
the  owner  had  tried  by  some  new  and  quaint  de- 
vice to  outdo  his  neighbor. 

"Of  course,"  Nehal  Singh  explained  to  her,  as 
they  turned  homeward,  "there  are  men  with  whom 
nothing  can  be  done.  They  have  spent  their  lives 
as  beggars,  and  can  not  work  now  even  if  they  would. 
For  such  I  have  made  provision,  although  they,  too, 
have  been  given  small  tasks  to  keep  them  from  appear- 
ing beggars.  But  they  are  the  last  of  their  kind.  There 
shall  in  future  be  no  idlers  in  Marut.  From  thencefor- 
ward every  man  shall  work  honestly  and  faithfully  for 
his  daily  bread,  and  I  will  see  that  he  has  no  need  to 
starve.  The  mine  will  employ  the  strongest,  and  then, 
later,  Travers  and  I  intend  to  revive  the  various  indus- 
tries suited  to  the  people's  taste  and  talent." 

"You  have  already  done  a  great  deal,"  she  said, 
moved  to  real  admiration.  "I  tremble  to  think  what 
it  has  cost  you."  As  she  spoke,  the  hidden  irony 
in  her  casually  spoken  words  came  home  to  her, 
and  she  felt  the  old  fear  clutch  at  her  heart. 

"I  have  given  the  best  I  have — myself,"  he  an- 
swered gravely.  "Of  material  wealth  I  have  only 
retained  what  is  beautiful ;  for  beauty  must  not  be 
sold  to  be  given  as  bread  among  the  poor.  That 
would  be  a  crime — as  though  one  would  sell  Heaven 
for  earth.  Travers  wished  me  to  sell  the  old  jew- 
eled statues  and  relics,  but  I  would  not.  They  be- 


FALSE  LIGHT  233 

long  to  my  people,  and  one  day,  when  they  have 
learned  to  see  and  understand,  they  will  thank  me  that 
I  have  kept  the  splendors  intact  for  them." 

"You  are  wise,"  she  said  thoughtfully — "wiser 
than  Travers  and  many  others." 

"In  my  first  enthusiasm,  I  meant  to  sell  every- 
thing, and  live  as  the  poorest  of  them  all,"  he  went 
on;  "but  I  soon  saw  that  that  was  wrong.  The 
man  into  whose  hands  wealth  is  given  has  a  great 
task  set  him.  He  has  a  power  denied  to  others.  He 
can  collect  and  preserve  all  that  is  beautiful  in  art 
and  nature — not  for  himself,  but  for  those  who 
otherwise  would  never  see  anything  but  what  is 
poor  and  squalid  and  commonplace.  True,  he  must 
also  strive  to  alleviate  the  sufferings  of  their  bodies, 
so  that  their  minds  may  be  free  to  enjoy;  but  he 
must  not  sacrifice  the  higher  for  the  lower  task — 
that  would  surely  be  the  work  of  what  you  call  a 
Philistine.  And  his  higher  task  is  to  feed  their 
souls  with  all  that  is  lovely  and  stainless.  Has  not 
the  Master  said,  'A  man  shall  not  live  by  bread 
alone'?  Is  it  not  true?  And  again,  I  have  read: 
'What  profiteth  it  a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole  world 
and  lose  his  own  soul?'  And  is  not  the  man  who 
sits,  fed  and  clothed,  in  a  low,  flat,  level  world  of 
mud-huts  in  danger  of  forgetting  that  there  were 
ever  such  wonders  as  the  minarets  of  a  high,  Heaven- 
aspiring  temple?  Will  he  not  grow  to  think  that 
there  is  nothing  more  beautiful  than  a  mud-hut, 
nothing  more  to  be  desired  than  his  daily  bread? 
I  have  thought  of  all  this,  and  I  have  preserved 
my  palace  and  everything  that  it  contains.  I  have 
preserved  it  for  my  people.  It  shall  be  for  them 


234  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

a  goal  and  encouragement,  a  voice  speaking  to  them 
day  by  day  from  the  high  towers:  'See  what  the 
hands  of  thy  fathers  have  created !  Thou  people 
in  the  low  dwellings,  arise  and  do  greater  things 
still,  for  the  great  and  beautiful  is  nearest  God' !" 

He  stopped  abruptly,  shaken  by  his  own  passion- 
ate enthusiasm.  His  fine  head  raised,  his  eyes  flash- 
ing, his  hand  extended,  he  could  have  stood  for  the 
statue  of  some  inspired  prophet. 

"You  are  a  modern  Buddha,"  she  said,  smiling 
faintly.  ,  Inwardly  she  was  comparing  him  to  Mr. 
Berry — Mr.  Berry,  whose  highest  ideal  in  life  was 
to  bring  everything  down  to  a  nice,  shabby,  ortho- 
dox level. 

Nehal  Singh's  hand  dropped  to  his  side  and  he 
looked  at  her  earnestly. 

"That  is  what  they  say,"  he  answered.  "My  peo- 
ple say  that  I  am  the  tenth  Avatar.  But  I  am  not. 
I  am  only  a  man — scarcely  so  much.  A  few  months 
ago  I  was  no  more  than  a  beggar  in  the  Bazaar,  an 
idler  and  a  dreamer.  If  I  have  thrown  aside  my 
false  dreams  and  come  out  as  an  untried  worker 
into  the  light  of  truth,  it  is  because  I  have  been  led 
by  God — through  you." 

Every  trace  of  color  fled  from  her  face,  and  the 
clear  eyes  which  met  his  from  beneath  the  broad 
helmet  distended  as  though  at  some  sudden  shock. 
In  the  course  of  their  earnest  but  impersonal  con- 
versation she  had  almost  forgotten  what  was  to 
come.  This  was  the  end  of  the  ride,  this  was  the 
to-morrow,  the  inevitable  to-morrow  of  those  who 
procrastinate  with  the  inevitable. 


FALSE  LIGHT  235 

"I — I  have  done  nothing,"  she  said,  striving  to 
hush  down  the  rising  tide  of  suffocating  emotion. 

"Yes,  it  is  nothing.  I  know  it  is  nothing,  but  it 
may  still  become  something,"  he  answered.  "Or 
is  it  not  already  something?  Is  it  not  something 
that  you  have  led  me  to  the  feet  of  the  Great  Teach- 
er? Is  it  not  something  that  I  am  awake  and  stand- 
ing on  the  threshold  of  a  new  Earth  and  Heaven, 
as  yet  blinded  by  the  light,  but  with  every  day 
gaining  courage  and  strength  to  go  forward?  Do 
not  say  that  this  is  nothing — you  to  whom  I  owe 
all  that  I  am  and  ever  shall  be !" 

She  threw  back  her  fair  head.  Now  was  the 
time  to  call  to  her  aid  all  her  cynicism,  all  the  shal- 
low, heartless  skepticism  which  had  hitherto  ruled 
her  character.  Now  was  the  time  to  laugh  and  to 
throw  into  this  man's  face  what  she  had  been  glad 
and  satisfied  to  throw  into  the  faces  of  a  dozen 
other  men — the  biting  acid  of  her  mockery.  But 
she  could  not  laugh — she  could  not  laugh  at  this 
man.  Her  tongue  cleaved  to  the  roof  of  her  mouth, 
her  throat  seemed  thick  with  a  suffocating  dust,  so 
that  she  could  make  no  sound. 

"God  forgive  me  if  I  have  boasted  of  my  own 
progress,"  he  went  on  earnestly.  "I  know  too  well 
how  much  of  the  long  road  I  have  still  to  travel.  It 
could  not  be  otherwise.  I  can  not  reach  in  a  few 
months  what  men  have  attained  who  have  always 
lived  in  the  light  of  truth.  But  I  have  hope.  I  carry 
in  my  heart  your  image  and  the  ideal  you  have  set  me — 
the  ideal  of  your  race." 

Then  speech  was  given  her. 


236  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"Cast  that  ideal  out!"  she  said  wildly  and  reck- 
lessly. "It  is  too  low  for  you.  You  have  passed  it. 
You  never  needed  it.  Choose  your  own  ideal,  and 
forget  me — forget  us  all.  We  can  teach  you  noth- 
ing." She  caught  her  breath  as  though  she  would 
have  called  back  her  own  words.  They  were  not 
the  words  she  had  meant  to  speak.  They  did  not 
sound  like  her  own.  They  had  been  put  in  her 
mouth  by  a  force  within  her  whose  existence  had 
been  revealed  to  her,  as  a  hidden  volcanic  mountain 
is  revealed,  by  a  sudden  fierce  upheaval,  which 
threw  off  all  the  old  rubbish  loading  the  surface 
of  her  nature.  It  was  only  a  momentary  upheaval. 
The  next,  minute  she  was  trying  to  save  herself  be- 
hind the  old  flippant  subterfuges.  "I  am  talking 
nonsense  !"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  short  angry  laugh. 

"Then  it  is  not  true  what  you  said?"  He  had 
urged  his  horse  close  to  hers,  and  she  could  almost 
feel  the  intensity  with  which  his  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  her  face.  That  gaze  stifled  her  laughter,  drove 
her  deeper  into  the  danger  she  was  striving  to  es- 
cape. 

"Yes,  it  is  true !"  she  answered  between  her  teeth. 

His  strong  hand  rested  upon  hers  and  held  it 
with  a  gentleness  which  paralyzed  her  strength. 

"If  it  is  true,  then  the  time  has  come!"  he  said. 
"The  hour  has  struck  which  God  ordained  for  us 
both.  Beatrice,  I  may  tell  you  now  what  you  have 
surely  known  since  the  day  we  stood  together  be- 
fore the  altar — I  love  you.  You  are  the  first  and 
last  woman  in  my  world."  His  voice  pierced 
through  to  her  senses  through  waves  of  roaring, 
confusing  sound.  Her  heart  beat  till  it  became  un- 


FALSE  LIGHT  237 

bearable  torture.  "Do  you  remember  that  second 
evening?"  he  went  on.  "The  priest  tried  to  stop  you 
at  the  gate  of  the  sanctuary,  but  I  spoke  to  him, 
and  he  let  you  pass.  You  asked  me  what  I  had 
said,  but  I  would  not  tell  you — not  then.  Now  I 
may:  'This  is  the  woman  whom  God  has  given 
me—' " 

She  flung  his  hand  violently  from  her. 

"You  must  not  say  that !"  she  cried,  with  desper- 
ate resolution.  "You  must  not  say  that  sort  of  thing 
—to  me." 

"Why  should  I  not?    I  love  you." 

"You  must  not  love  me.  I — I  am  to  be  Captain 
Stafford's  wife." 

"Beatrice !"  His  cry  of  incredulous  pain  drove 
her  to  frantic  measures. 

"It  is  true.     I  swear  it." 

Then  it  was  all  over.  He  made  no  protest.  He 
rode  by  her  side  as  though  he  had  been  turned  to 
stone,  rigidly  upright,  his  hand  hanging  lifeless 
at  his  side,  his  face  expressionless.  She  felt  that 
she  had  struck  right  at  his  life's  vitality — that  she 
had  killed  him.  Yet  it  was  not  remorse  that  blinded 
her  till  the  white  road  became  a  shimmering  blur — 
it  was  a  frightful  personal  pain  which  was  hers  and 
hers  alone.  Neither  spoke.  They  passed  a  crowd 
of  natives  returning  to  the  Bazaar.  They  salaamed, 
but  Nehal  Singh  made  no  response,  as  was  his  wont. 
He  did  not  seem  to  see  them.  Mechanically  he 
guided  his  horse  through  the  bowing  crowd.  The 
silence  became  unbearable.  She  had  flippantly  told 
herself  that  as  long  as  he  did  not  make  a  "scene" 
she  would  be  satisfied.  He  had  not  made  a  "scene." 


238  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

From  the  moment  that  she  had  made  her  final  dec- 
laration he  had  not  spoken,  and  now  she  was  pray- 
ing that  he  would  say  something  to  her — anything, 
she  did  not  care  what,  only  not  that  terrible  ac- 
cusatory silence.  At  last,  in  desperation,  she  be- 
gan to  make  it  up  with  him  as  she  had  planned — 
in  an  incoherent,  helpless  way. 

"I  have  hurt  you,"  she  stammered.  "Forgive  me 
— I  did  not  mean  to.  It  has  all  been  a  cruel  mis- 
take. I  looked  upon  you  as  a  friend.  How  could 
I  tell  that  you  meant  more  than  that?  If  I  have 
deceived  you,  I  can  only  ask  you  with  all  my  heart 
to  forgive  me." 

He  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  her.  His  eyes 
were  dull  and  clouded,  as  though  a  film  had  been  drawn 
across  them. 

"Not  you  have  deceived  me,"  he  answered  quietly. 
"I  have  deceived  myself.  I  thought  I  was  follow- 
ing a  great  God-sent  light.  It  was  nothing  more 
than  a  firefly  glittering  through  my  darkness.  You 
are  not  to  blame." 

He  was  already  casting  contempt  at  the  influence 
which  she  had  exercised  over  him ;  he  was  cutting 
himself  free  from  her — as  she  had  desired,  as  was 
inevitable.  Yet,  with  a  foolish,  senseless  anger,  she 
sought  to  draw  him  back  to  her  and  hold  him,  if 
only  by  the  reverence  for  what  had  been. 

"Do  not  despise  our  friendship !"  she  pleaded. 
"If  it  has  not  been  what  you  thought  it  was,  has  it 
any  the  less  opened  the  gates  of  Heaven  and  earth, 
as  you  said?  What  I  have  given  you  is  good — the 
very  best  I  had  to  give.  The  ideal  was  a  high  one. 
I  helped  you  toward  it  with  my  friendship.  Is  it 


FALSE  LIGHT  239 

bad  because  it  was  only  friendship — because  it 
couldn't  be  more  than  that?  You  do  not  know," 
she  went  on,  with  a  forced  attempt  to  appear  cheer- 
ful and  matter-of-fact,  "you  do  not  know  how  much 
your  trust  and  confidence  has  been  to  me.  I  have 
been  so  proud  to  help  you.  If  I  had  ever  thought 
it  would  come  to  this — I  would  have  stopped  long 
ago." 

So  she  lied,  clinging  to  his  respect  as  though  it 
had  been  her  salvation.  And  he  believed  her.  His 
face  relaxed,  and  for  the  first  time  she  saw  clearly 
what  he  was  enduring. 

"I  do  not  despise  our — friendship,  even  though 
it  must  end  here,"  he  said.  "What  you  have  given 
me  I  shall  always  keep — always.  I  shall  not  turn 
back  because  I  must  go  on  alone.  Your  image  shall 
still  guide  me  in  my  life.  It  is  not  less  pure  and 
noble  because  I  can  not  ever  call  it  my  own."  She 
heard  his  voice  break,  but  he  went  on  quietly  and 
gently:  "I  pray  you  may  be  happy  with  the  man 
you  love." 

She  had  conquered.  She  had  kept  her  place  in 
his  life  at  the  same  time  that  she  was  thrusting  him 
out  of  her  own.  He  would  continue  undeterred 
along  the  road  on  to  which  she  had  tempted  him — 
perhaps  to  his  destruction — believing  in  her,  trust- 
ing in  her  as  no  other  being  had  ever  done  or  would 
do.  This  much  she  had  snatched  from  the  wreck- 
age. 

They  did  not  speak  again  until  they  reached  her 
bungalow.  Then  he  dismounted  and,  quietly  motion- 
ing the  syce  to  one  side,  helped  her  to  the 
ground. 


240  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"It  is  for  the  last  time,"  he  said.  "Good-by,  Lak- 
shmi !" 

"Good-by !" 

She  could  not  lift  her  eyes  to  his  face,  but  from 
the  top  of  the  steps  she  was  tempted  to  look  back. 
He  stood  where  she  had  left  him,  his  hand  resting 
on  her  saddle,  his  head  bent,  and  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  attitude  which  sent  her  hurrying  into 
the  house  without  a  second  glance. 

She  found  her  mother  waiting  for  her  in  her  room, 
whither  she  fled  to  be  alone  and  undisturbed  to 
fight  and  stamp  out  the  pain  that  was  aching 
in  her  heart.  Mrs.  Gary,  wonderfully  curled  and 
powdered,  received  her  daughter  with  unusual  rap- 
ture. 

"My  dear!"  she  exclaimed,  kissing  Beatrice  on 
both  cheeks,  "I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  back 
early !  Captain  Stafford  is  here,  and  has  something 
for  you — I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  it  was  a  ring, 
you  lucky  child !  Did  I  not  tell  you  he  was  the 
very  husband  for  you?  He  has  been  telling  me 
all  about  Lois  and  Travers.  Everybody  is  quite 
pleased  about  it.  Now  hurry  up  and  make  yourself 
pretty.  Why,  what's  the  matter?  You  look  so 
— so  queer!" 

Beatrice  pushed  past  her  mother  and,  going  to 
the  table,  flung  herself  down  as  though  exhausted. 

"It's  nothing,"  she  muttered.  "Tell— John  I  can't 
see  him.  I'm  tired — ill — anything  you  like." 

"Beaty,  I  won't  do  anything  of  the  sort.  What 
has  happened?  Is  it  that  horrid  Rajah?  Did  you 
tell  him?" 

"Yes." 


FALSE  LIGHT  241 

"And  he  made  a  scene,  my  poor  Beaty?" 

"No." 

"Can't  you  answer  me  properly?  Tell  me  what 
happened." 

"He  asked  me  to  marry  him." 

Mrs.  Gary  first  gasped,  and  then  burst  into  a 
loud,  cackling  laugh. 

"He  asked  you  to  marry  him !  That  colored  man !  I 
hope  you  laughed  in  his  face?" 

Beatrice  turned,  one  clenched  hand  resting  on 
the  table. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  did  not  laugh — there  was  noth- 
ing to  laugh  at.  I  have  kept  my  promise  to  you." 
Then,  unexpectedly  she  buried  her  face  in  her  arms 
and  burst  into  tears. 

Mrs.  Gary  stood  there  thunderstruck,  her  mouth 
open,  her  eyes  wide  with  alarm.  For  one  moment 
she  was  incapable  of  reasoning  out  this  catastrophe. 
She  had  never  seen  Beatrice  cry — her  tears,  because 
of  their  rarity,  were  as  terrible  as  a  man's,  and  could 
not  be  explained  away  by  nerves  or  fatigue.  This  was 
something  else.  Mrs.  Gary  crossed  the  room.  She 
laid  a  fat,  trembling  hand  on  her  daughter's 
shoulder. 

"Beaty,  what's  the  matter?"  she  asked  uneasily. 
"What  is  it?  Are  you  ill ?— or— or— Beaty !"— a 
light  dawning  across  her  dull  face — "good  heavens ! 
you  don't  love  that  man?"  There  was  no  answer. 
After  a  long  moment,  Mrs.  Gary's  hand  fell  to  her 
side.  "You  couldn't!"  she  muttered.  "It  wouldn't 
do.  Think  of  what  people  would  say!  Our  posi- 
tion!" Still  no  answer.  She  turned  and  stumbled 


242  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

toward  the  door.    "I  will  tell  the  captain — you  are  ill," 
she  said. 

Beatrice  did  not  move. 


BOOK  II 


CHAPTER  I 

BUILDING   THE    CATHEDRAL 

THE  pretty  little  drawing-room  was  already  in 
half  darkness.  Travers  went  to  the  window  and, 
leaning  his  shoulder  lazily  against  the  casement, 
began  to  sort  out  and  open  the  letters  that  had  been 
lying  on  the  tea-table  waiting  for  him. 

"One  from  the  Colonel,  Lois,"  he  said,  after  a 
moment's  perusal.  "No  news  in  particular.  He  is 
down  with  a  touch  of  fever,  and  the  whole  regiment 
is  camping  out  without  him.  Stafford's  marriage 
still  hanging  fire.  Silly  girl !  What's  she  waiting 
for,  in  the  name  of  conscience?" 

Lois  looked  up  from  her  duties  at  the  table. 

"They  have  been  engaged  over  a  year,"  she  said. 

"As  long  as  we  have  been  engaged  and  married," 
he  answered  with  an  affectionate  smile.  "How  long 
is  that,  little  woman?  About  eighteen  months,  eh? 
They  don't  either  of  them  seem  in  much  of  a  hurry." 

He  went  on  reading,  only  stretching  out  his  hand 
mechanically  as  she  brought  him  his  second  cup  of 
tea.  Lois  remained  at  his  side,  her  eyes  fixed 
thoughtfully,  almost  hungrily,  on  the  torn  envelope 
which  lay  on  the  floor  at  his  feet. 

"Why  did  you  call  Beatrice  Cary  a  silly  girl?" 
she  asked  at  last.  "It  never  struck  me  that  she  was 
silly." 

245 


246  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"She  wasn't,  but  she  will  be  if  she  doesn't  hold 
Stafford  fast." 

A  shadow  passed  over  the  face  still  turned  to  the 
floor. 

"Is  Stafford — so — so  desirable?" 

"His  money  is,  dear  child,  and  the  Carys  may 
need  money  in  the  near  future." 

"I  thought  they  were  rich?" 

"Their  money  is  in  the  mine." 

"But  the  mine  is  to  be  successful?" 

He  smiled  in  good-natured  amusement  at  her 
persistency. 

"Have  you  ever  heard  of  a  mine  that  wasn't  to 
be  successful?  If  you  wait  a  moment,  I  will  tell 
you  the  latest  news.  Here's  a  note  from  the  Rajah." 
He  tore  open  the  large  square  envelope,  and  went 
on  reading  with  the  same  idle  interest.  "There's 
been  an  accident  with  the  blasting,"  he  observed 
casually.  "Five  men  killed.  Our  native  friend  is, 
of  course,  in  a  fever.  Has  pensioned  all  the  fam- 
ilies. I  don't  know  where  he  will  land  us  with  his 
extravagances.  We  shall  want  all  the  money  we 
can  get  for  repairing  the  damage.  Philanthropy 
is  becoming  a  sort  of  disease  with  him.  Fortunately,  I 
am  not  bitten  so  far."  He  laughed,  and  threw  the  let- 
ter to  one  side.  "I  expect  I  shall  have  to  run  up  north 
to  put  things  straight." 

"Hasn't  the  mine  brought  in  enough?"  Lois  an- 
swered innocently. 

"Enough?"  He  looked  at  her  with  a  twinkle  in 
his  bright  eyes.  "Dear  girl,  it  hasn't  paid  so  much 
as  a  quarter  of  its  expenses." 

"But  will  it  ever?" 


247 

"Heaven  knows — or  perhaps  even  Heaven  does 
not.  I'm  sure  I  don't." 

"You  talk  so  calmly  about  it!"  she  exclaimed, 
aghast.  "Surely  you  are  heavily  involved — and  not 
only  you,  but  the  Rajah  and  the  people  in  Marut?" 

He  patted  her  on  the  cheek. 

"Don't  worry  on  that  score,"  he  assured  her.  "Be- 
sides, it's  not  my  way  to  sit  down  and  cry  over 
what  can't  be  helped.  I  dare  say  I  shall  pull 
through  somehow." 

"Yes,  you,  perhaps." 

He  changed  color  slightly  under  the  challenge  in  her 
eyes,  but  his  expression  remained  unruffled. 

"You  are  not  exactly  a  very  trusting  wife,  are 
you,  Lois?  It  comes  of  letting  a  woman  have  a 
look  into  business.  Never  mind,  we  won't  argue 
the  subject  all  over  again.  I  know  what  you  think 
of  me.  There,  good-by.  I  must  be  off  again.  Nichol- 
son will  be  around  shortly.  I  told  him  he  would  find 
me  at  home." 

"Had  you  not  better  wait  for  him,  then?" 

"Oh,  no.  I  only  told  him  I  should  be  at  home 
as  a  sort  of  fagon  de  parler.  He  only  comes  when 
he  thinks  I  am  there — admirable  person — and  I 
know  you  like  to  have  old  friends  about.  Good-by, 
dear." 

"Good-by."  She  accepted  his  kiss  listlessly,  and 
when  he  had  gone  went  back  to  the  window. 

The  window  had  become  Lois  Travers'  vantage- 
point  of  life.  From  thence  she  could  overlook  the 
bustling  Madras  square  into  which  four  streets 
poured  their  unending  stream,  and  build  her  fancies 
about  each  one  of  the  atoms  as  they  passed  uncon- 


248  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

sciously  beneath  her  gaze.  Some  of  the  faces  were 
well  known  to  her.  They  always  passed  at  the  time 
when  she  took  her  sewing  and  sat  by  the  window, 
pretending  to  work  by  the  fading  glow  of  evening 
light,  and  about  each  she  wove  a  simple  little  story, 
always,  or  nearly  always,  happy.  She  imagined  the 
men  returning  from  business  to  their  homes.  If 
there  was  ever  a  cloud  upon  their  brow,  she  smiled 
to  think  how  the  trouble  would  be  brushed  away 
by  loving  hands ;  if  their  step  were  more  than  usual- 
ly light  and  elastic,  her  own  heart  grew  lighter 
with  the  thought  that  they  were  hurrying  back  to 
the  source  of  their  happiness. 

Lois  lived  on  the  real  or  imagined  joys  of  others. 
She  clung  to  her  air  castles  in  which  her  unknown  he- 
roes lived,  building  them  more  beautifully,  fitting  them 
out  with  more  perfect  content,  as  her  own  brick 
dwelling  grew  darker  and  more  desolate.  She  felt  that 
if  ever  she  let  go  her  hold  on  them  she  would  lose  faith 
in  human  happiness,  and  thus  in  life  itself.  For  be- 
tween Lois  Travers  the  woman  and  Lois  Travers 
the  light-hearted,  high-spirited  girl  there  stretched 
a  year's  gulf.  Marriage  had  been  to  her  what  it  is 
more  or  less  to  all  women — a  Rubicon,  a  Book  of 
Revelations  in  which  girlish  ideals  are  rarely  real- 
ized, sometimes  modified,  more  often  destroyed. 

Clever  and  pliable  women,  women  with  the  "art  of 
living"  do  not  allow  their  hearts  to  be  broken  in  the 
latter  event,  supposing  them  to  have  relaxed  their 
cleverness  so  far  as  to  have  had  ideals  at  all;  but 
"Lois  was  not  clever  or  pliable,  and  her  ideals  had 
been  destroyed.  She  had  loved  John  Stafford,  and 
in  some  inexplicable  way  he  had  failed  her.  She 


BUILDING  THE  CATHEDRAL          249 

had  given  her  life  into  Travers'  hands  in  the  belief 
that  he  needed  her  for  his  progress,  and  that  in 
helping  him  her  idle  powers  of  love  and  devotion 
would  not  be  wasted.  Too  late  she  realized — what  no 
woman  ever  realizes  until  it  is  too  late — that  the  man 
who  needs  a  woman  for  his  salvation  is  already  far  be- 
yond her  help. 

Beneath  Lois'  light-heartedness  and  love  of  gai- 
ety there  lurked  a  spirit  of  Puritanism  which  had 
drawn  her  to  Stafford,  and  now  brought  her  into 
violent  conflict  with  Travers'  fundamental  frivolity. 
In  the  first  month  of  their  marriage  she  had  had  to 
admit  that  she  had  reached  the  bottom  of  his  char- 
acter, and  found  nothing  there — not  so  much  as  a 
deeply  planted  vice.  He  had  pretended  a  depth  of 
feeling  which  was  only  in  part  sincere,  and  he  was 
too  lazy  to  keep  up  a  pretense  when  his  chief  ob- 
ject was  gained.  He  really  cared  for  Lois,  but  he 
had  wilfully  exaggerated  the  role  she  played  in  his 
life.  Always  good-natured  and  kindly,  he  never 
allowed  her  to  ruffle  or  anger  him.  She  had  never 
seen  him  rough  or  cruel  to  any  human  being,  and 
all  these  superficial  virtues  forced  her  farther  from 
him. 

A  few  significant  incidents  had  revealed  to  her  that 
his  good  nature  covered  a  cold-blooded  indifference 
where  his  own  interests  were  vitally  concerned.  His 
apparent  pliability  hid  a  dexterity  which  evaded  every 
recognized  principle.  In  vain  she  exerted  the  influence 
with  which  he  had  pretended  to  invest  her.  The  first 
effort  proved  that  it  had  never  really  existed.  It  was 
no  more  in  his  life  than  the  valuable  ornament  on  his 
mantel-shelf — a  thing  to  be  dusted,  preserved,  and  ad- 


250  THE  NATIVE  BORX 

mired  in  leisure  hours,  never  set  to  serious  use.  This 
last  discovery,  made  shortly  after  their  arrival  in  Mad- 
ras, had  broken  her.  From  that  moment  she  had 
felt  herself  crippled.  Her  life  became  a  blank,  col- 
orless waste,  all  the  more  terrible  because  of  the 
mirages  with  which  it  was  lighted.  The  world  saw 
the  mirages :  the  good-looking,  genial-tempered 
husband;  the  well-furnished  house;  all  the  outward 
symptoms  of  an  irrefutably  satisfactory  and  success- 
ful life. 

Only  one  person  perhaps  saw  deeper,  and  that  was 
Nicholson.  He  had  been  ordered  for  a  year  to  Madras, 
and  thus  it  came  about  that  they  often  met.  Travers' 
first  dislike  for  the  officer  had  evaporated,  and  he 
seemed  rather  to  insist  on  an  increase  of  their  intimacy, 
inviting  Nicholson  constantly  to  the  house.  And  in 
those  long  evening  visits  Nicholson  had  seen  what  oth- 
ers did  not  see  and  what  Lois  kept  hidden  in  her  own 
heart.  For  she  had  told  no  one  that  the  mirages  were 
no  more  than  mirages — that  her  life  still  lacked  all  the 
vital  elements  of  reality  and  sincerity.  She  was  proud, 
and  not  even  the  people  in  dear  old  Marut  suspected 
that  she  was  stifling  in  the  hot  Madras  air  and  in  the 
unhealthy  atmosphere  of  small  lies  and  loose  prin- 
ciples in  which  Travers  was  so  thoroughly  at  home. 
Only  Nicholson's  sensitive  temperament  felt  what 
others  neither  heard  nor  saw. 

So  a  year  had  passed,  and  every  evening  Lois 
sat  by  the  window,  watching  the  busy  crowd,  and 
building  up  their  lives  as  she  had  once  dreamed  of 
building  up  her  own.  She  scarcely  thought  of  her- 
self. Memories  are  dangerous.  The  present  was 


BUILDING  THE  CATHEDRAL          251 

too  real  to  be  considered,  and  the  future  too  blank 
and  hopeless. 

The  darkness  increased.  Twilight  yielded  to 
nightfall,  and  the  yellow  lights  sprang  up  in  the 
shops  opposite  her  window.  She  heard  the  door 
open,  but  did  not  turn,  thinking  it  was  her  husband 
unexpectedly  returned. 

"Shall  I  light  the  lamp?"  she  asked. 

It  was  not  Travers  who  answered.  A  familiar 
voice  struck  on  her  ears,  like  the  memories,  ring- 
ing out  a  dangerous  response  from  her  tired  soul. 

"Forgive  me,  Mrs.  Travers.  I  met  your  husband 
this  afternoon,  and  he  told  me  to  drop  in  unan- 
nounced, as  he  would  be  alone.  It  seems  the  other 
way  about.  I  am  very  sorry  to  seem  so  rude." 

Lois  rose  quickly  to  her  feet.  She  saw  Nichol- 
son standing  in  the  doorway,  tall,  upright,  his  face 
hidden  by  the  shadow. 

"I  won't  disturb  you,"  he  added,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation. 

The  tone  of  formality  hurt  her.  With  a  return 
of  her  old  impulsiveness,  she  began  searching  for 
the  matches. 

"You  are  not  disturbing  me,"  she  said.  "On  the 
contrary,  I —  was  expecting  you.  Archibald  told 
me  you  were  coming,  but  I  forgot  to  light  up.  I  was 
twilight-dreaming,  if  there  is  such  a  term." 

She  laughed  with  a  forced  cheerfulness,  and  he 
made  no  answer.  The  little  red-shaded  lamp  gave 
her  some  trouble,  and  when  she  looked  up  she  saw 
that  he  was  standing  opposite  her,  the  light  falling 
on  a  broad  scar  across  his  forehead. 


252  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"How  the  burn  shows  to-night !"  she  exclaimed 
involuntarily.  "Will  you  never  lose  it?" 

"Never,"  he  answered.  "I  do  not  want  to.  When 
I  am  depressed,  I  look  at  it,  and  remember  that  I 
have  done  one  thing  worth  doing  in  my  life." 

"I  don't  know,"  she  returned.  "You  have  done 
more  useful  things  than  that." 

"Not  to  my  mind." 

"Well,  but  to  mine.  There,  when  I  have  pulled 
the  curtains  and  put  the  lamp  just  at  your  elbow, 
you  could  almost  imagine  yourself  back  in  Eng- 
land, couldn't  you?  Imagine  the  street  outside  as 
a  bit  of  London.  There  could  hardly  be  more  noise. 
The  idea  may  refresh  you.  You  look  so  tired." 

He  seated  himself  in  the  comfortable  wicker  chair 
by  the  table  and  looked  about  him  with  a  faint 
smile  of  content. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it  is  homely,  isn't  it?  The  red 
light,  and  the  pretty  little  room,  and  you  sitting 
there  working.  It  might  be  a  corner  of  the  old 
country — or  of  Marut.  Your  study  was  just  like 
this,  I  remember." 

"Yes,  I  copied  it.  It  made  me  feel  less  lonely. 
Only  I  flatter  myself  that  it  is  tidier  here  than  it 
used  to  be  in  the  old  days." 

He  laughed,  and  the  laughter  sent  the  light  shin- 
ing in  his  eyes. 

"Rather!  When  I  first  joined  I  had  the  chemical 
craze  on,  do  you  remember?  I  thought  I  was  go- 
ing to  discover  some  wonderful  new  gunpowder,  and 
we  used  to  experiment  together  in  your  room.  The 
business  came  to  an  untimely  end  when  I  blew  off 
part  of  the  ceiling — " 


BUILDING  THE  CATHEDRAL  253 

"And  some  of  my  eyebrows !"  she  interposed  mer- 
rily. 

"Yes,  of  course.  I  don't  know  which  disaster  up- 
set Mrs.  Carmichael  most,  good  soul.  After  that 
I  forget  what  craze  came  about,  but  we  always  had 
a  new  one  on  the  list,  hadn't  we?" 

She  nodded,  her  head  once  more  bent  over  her 
work. 

"None  of  them  lasted,"  she  said.  "Crazes  never 
do." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Their  little  burst 
of  gay  recollections  was  over,  and  the  restraint  had 
regained  its  old  ascendancy  over  them.  Unknown 
to  her,  Nicholson  was  watching  his  companion 
with  keen,  anxious  eyes. 

"You  look  pale  and  tired,"  he  said  gently.  "Mad- 
ras is  getting  too  much  for  you.  When  is  Travers 
going  to  take  you  for  a  change?" 

"I  don't  know.  Not  just  now.  Besides,  I  am 
happier  here.  I  like  the  noise  and  bustle." 

"You  used  not  to.  You  were  all  for  outdoor 
sports  and  beautiful  scenery." 

"Yes,  but  now  it  is  different.  I  could  not  stand 
the  quiet.  I  must  have  noise  to  distract  me — I 
mean,  I  have  grown  so  accustomed  to  it." 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "one  grows  accustomed 
to  it."  Then,  presently,  he  added,  in  another  tone : 
"At  any  rate,  my  term  in  Madras  is  at  an  end.  I 
return  to  Marut  next  week." 

She  started.  The  start  was  almost  a  violent  one, 
and  her  hands  fell  limply  in  her  lap. 

"You  are  going  back  to  Marut?"  she  said.  "For 
ever?" 


254  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

He  smiled,  but  his  eyes  avoided  hers. 

"Not  for  ever,  I  hope.  I  am  sick  of  pen-work, 
and  want  to  get  back  to  the  front  among  my  men. 
There  is  a  company  of  sepoys  to  be  stationed  at 
Marut,  and  they  have  given  me  the  command.  It's 
a  good  post,  though  of  course  I  would  rather  be  at 
the  frontier,  where  there's  something  doing.  At 
any  rate,  I  must  get  away  from  Madras  as  soon  as 
possible." 

"Yes,"  she  said  absently,  "no  doubt  it  is  best." 

She  went  on  stitching  as  though  nothing  had  hap- 
pened, but  her  hands  trembled,  and  once  she  threw 
back  her  head  as  though  fighting  down  a  strong 
emotion.  But  he  had  ceased  to  watch  her.  He  was 
leaning  a  little  forward,  one  elbow  resting  on  his 
knee,  his  eyes  fixed  steadfastly  in  front  of  him. 

"Can  I  be  the  bearer  of  any  messages?"  he  asked 
at  last. 

"No,  thank  you.  I  write  regularly.  Or — yes,  you 
might  tell  them  that  you  left  me  well  and  happy.  That 
will  please  them.  Will  you  be  so  kind  ?" 

"Will  it  be  kind  to  give  a  message  which  is  not 
quite  true? — I  mean,"  he  added  hastily,  "you  do 
not  seem  strong." 

"Oh,  I  am  strong  enough.  I  do  not  think  I  shall 
ever  be  ill." 

Another  long  and  painful  silence  intervened. 
There  was  no  sound,  save  Lois'  thread  as  it  was 
drawn  through  the  thick  material.  Nicholson  drew 
out  his  watch. 

"You  mustn't  think  me  rude,  Mrs.  Travers,"  he 
said,  with  an  abrupt  return  to  his  old  formality, 
"but  I  have  any  amount  of  work  to  do  before  I 


255 


leave,  and  among  other  things  I  wanted  to  see  your 
husband  on  business.  He  told  me  the  other  day 
that  he  had  some  shares  in  the  Marut  Company 
going,  and  said  if  I  would  care  for  them — 

Her  work  dropped  from  her  hand  to  the  floor. 
She  stared  at  him  with  a  face  whiter  than  the  linen 
she  had  been  stitching. 

"But  you  are  not  going  to  buy  them?"  she  asked 
sharply.  Something  in  her  tone  forced  him  to  meet 
her  eyes. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Why  not?  I'm  a  poor  busi- 
ness man,  and  your  husband  always  seems  to  come  off 
well  in  his  ventures.  Without  being  in  the  least 
a  speculator,  I  should  be  glad  to  make  a  little  mon- 
ey." He  smiled.  "I  have  another  craze  on,  you 
see — a  gun  this  time — and  it  requires  capital  to 
complete.  So  I  thought- 
She  leaned  forward.  One  small  hand  lay  clenched 
on  the  table  between  them,  and  there  was  a  force 
and  energy  in  her  attitude  which  arrested  his 
startled  attention. 

"I  think  you  are  mistaken,  Captain  Nicholson," 
she  said.    "My  husband  has  no  shares  to  sell." 
"But  yesterday  he  told  me  that  he  had!" 
"Yes,  yesterday,  no  doubt.     But  he  heard  to-day 
from  the  Rajah.     I  think,  if  you  do  not  mind  wait- 
ing, he  will  tell  you  himself  that  what  I  say  is  true." 
For  a  second  they  looked  straight  at  each  other 
without  speaking.     Neither  was  conscious  of  any 
clear  thought,  but  both  knew  that  in  that  breathing 
space  they  had  exchanged  a  signal  from  those  hid- 
den chambers  which  men  unlock  only  in  brief  mo- 
ments of  silent  crisis.    The  crisis  had  come  in  spite 


256  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

of  a  year's  defiant  struggle.  It  had  broken  down 
the  barrier  of  trivial  commonplaces  behind  which 
they  had  always  sought  shelter ;  it  had  rushed  over 
them  in  a  flash,  like  a  sudden  tidal  wave,  scorning 
their  painfully  erected  defenses,  driving  them  help- 
lessly before  it.  It  had  no  apparent  cause,  save  that 
in  that  moment  of  alarm  she  had  looked  at  him 
with  her  soul  unguarded,  and  he,  overwhelmed  by 
that  silent  revelation,  had  allowed  his  own  sternly 
repressed  secret  to  flash  back  its  breathless  mes- 
sage. Nicholson  was  the  first  to  regain  his  self- 
control.  He  bent  down  and,  picking  up  her  work, 
restored  it  gently  to  her  hands. 

"You  must  go  on  with  your  sewing,"  he  said.  "I 
like  seeing  you  work.  It  completes  the  picture  of  a 
— home — " 

"Yes,"  she  interrupted,  in  a  rough,  broken  voice. 
"It  is  a  perfect  picture,  is  it  not?  Just  so,  as  it  is — 
only,  of  course — "  she  laughed  as  he  had  never 
heard  her  laugh  before — "of  course  it's  only  a  tab- 
leau— it  isn't  real." 

Once  more  her  head  was  bent  over  her  work.  He 
saw  how  with  every  stitch  she  was  fighting  stubbornly 
for  calm — fighting  with  all  the  dogged  desperation 
of  a  high-minded  woman  who  sees  herself  trem- 
bling at  the  edge  of  a  bottomless  abyss.  He  knew 
now  for  certain  that  her  apparent  happiness  was 
a  sham  and  an  heroic  lie — that  she  knew  what  he 
knew  of  Travers'  outside  life,  and  suffered  with  the 
intensity  which  honor  must  suffer  when  linked  with 
dishonor.  He  saw,  with  a  soldier's  instinctive  admira- 
tion, that  she  was  holding  her  ground  against  the  fierce 
and  unexpected  attack  of  an  overwhelming  enemy,  and 


BUILDING  THE  CATHEDRAL          257 

that  he,  who  had  his  own  battle  to  fight,  must  hold  out 
to  her  a  helping,  strengthening  comrade's  hand. 

"Lois!"  he  said  quietly.     "Lois!" 

She  went  on  working.  The  name  had  been  a 
test  of  her  strength,  and  she  had  borne  it.  He  knew 
that  he  could  go  on  with  what  he  had  to  say. 

"Lois,  we  had  our  young  enthusiasms  in  those 
old  days — crazes,  we  will  call  them — and  of  course, 
like  all  young  enthusiasms,  they  are  gone  for  ever. 
But  there  were  other  things.  Sometimes  we  used 
to  talk  very  seriously  about  life,  do  you  remember? 
I  dare  say  we  talked  nonsense  for  the  greater  part 
— we  were  very  young — but  we  were  intensely  se- 
rious. We  told  each  other  what  we  thought  life 
was,  and  what  we  intended  to  make  of  it.  It  was 
then  we  had  the  idea  of  the  cathedral." 

She  looked  up  earnestly  at  him. 

"The  cathedral?    Haven't  you  forgotten?" 

"No.     I  never  forgot  it." 

"I  thought  you  had.  It  is  all  such  a  long  time 
ago.  When  I  read  about  you  in  the  papers,  and 
heard  of  all  the  wonders  you  had  done,  I  was  sure 
you  must  have  forgotten  the  chatter  of  your  fifteen- 
year-old  playfellow.  A  man  who  spends  his  day  as 
you  did,  in  the  saddle,  and  the  night  in  long, 
anxious  watches,  does  not  have  time  for  such  ideas 
as  we  cultivated  in  those  days." 

"You  are  wrong,  Lois.  The  idea  is  everything. 
It  is  the  mainspring  of  a  man's  life.  If  I  did  any- 
thing wonderful,  as  you  say,  it  was  for  the  sake  of 
the  cathedral.  There  was,  for  instance,  one  night 
which  I  remember  very  well.  A  whole  tribe  had 
risen.  Half  my  men  were  down  with  fever,  and  I 


258  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

felt — well,  pretty  bad.  I  was  a  bit  delirious,  I  fancy, 
and  in  delirium  very  often  the  foundations  of  a 
man's  character  come  uppermost.  The  cathedral  was 
always  in  my  mind.  I  saw  your  half,  and  it  was  get- 
ting on  splendidly.  That  goaded  me.  I  felt  I  had  to 
go  on,  too.  So  I  pulled  myself  together  and  went  ahead. 
We  pulled  through  somehow,  and  I  have  always  felt 
that  in  that  night  I  laid  the  chief  stone." 

The  burning  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes. 

"So  all  that  splendid  work  was  done  for  the  sake 
of  our  cathedral  ?" 

"Partly,  but  not  in  the  first  place.  Do  you  re- 
member of  what  use  our  cathedral  was  to  be  in 
the  world  ?  It  wasn't  merely  to  be  a  monument  to  our 
own  glory — it  was  to  be  a  sheltering  place  for 
others,  an  example  to  them,  an  inspiration.  You 
said  once,  very  rightly,  that  if  every  here  and  there 
a  human  being  made  a  cathedral  out  of  his  life, 
other  people  would  soon  get  ashamed  of  their  mud- 
huts,  and  pull  them  down.  They  would  try  to  build 
cathedrals  on  a  bigger  and  nobler  scale  than  the 
first  one,  and  probably  would  succeed.  Thus  the 
work  would  go  on  from  one  generation  to  another. 
It  was  an  idea  worthy  to  form  the  foundations  of 
a  man's  ambition.  I  made  it  mine,  as  I  knew  you 
had  made  it  yours.  It  strengthened  me  to  think 
that  every  decent  action  was  a  fresh  stone  to  the 
building  which  in  the  end  would  stand  perfect — 
not  to  my  glory,  but  to  the  glory  of  the  whole  hu- 
man race."  He  smiled,  though  his  eyes  remained 
serious.  "As  an  Englishman,  I  can  not  help  wishing 
that  cathedrals  should  be  most  plentiful  on  English 
soil." 


BUILDING  THE  CATHEDRAL          259 

"Do  you  really  think  that  one  small  human  life 
can  make  so  much  difference?"  she  asked,  rather 
bitterly.  "I  used  to  think  so,  in  my  self-important 
days,  but  I  am  beginning  to  believe  that  our  little 
individual  efforts  are  hopelessly  lost  in  a  sea  of 
rubbish." 

"Our  youthful  conceit  is  more  justifiable  than 
such  self-disparagement,"  he  answered.  "I  often 
think  that  humility — at  any  rate  a  certain  kind — is 
a  questionable  virtue.  In  lessening  our  own  value, 
we  lessen  our  own  responsibility,  and  our  responsi- 
bility is  tremendous.  One  life  can  make  the  differ- 
ence of  a  cathedral  spire  in  a  town  of  low-built  huts 
or  of  a  snow  mountain  in  an  ugly  plain.  I  am  sure 
of  it — and  so  are  you.  So  is  everybody  who  thinks 
about  it.  But  people  do  not  think.  It  is  sometimes 
much  more  convenient  to  believe  that  one  is  too  in- 
significant to  have  any  responsibility.  But  to  my 
mind  there  is  not  a  vagabond  in  the  street  who  is 
not  directly  helping  on  our  national  decay,  and 
who  might  not  be  building  up  the  Empire."  He 
leaned  toward  her,  lowering  his  voice.  "You  know 
I  am  not  just  talking,  Lois.  It  is  my  life's  prin- 
ciple which  I  lay  before  you — mine  and  yours.  How 
long  is  it  since  we  have  spoken  of  these  things? 
Ten  years.  Since  then  we  have  been  building  stead- 
ily at  our  cathedral.  We  must  go  on." 

"How  can  we?"  she  answered  wearily.  "It  is 
not  our  cathedral  any  more.  I  thought  you  had 
forgotten,  and — 

"My  first  day  in  Marut  I  sent  a  message  to  you — 
a  little  in  fun,  but  with  an  earnest  purpose.  I 
wanted  to  see  if  you  had  forgotten,  and  I  wanted 


260  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

you  to  know  that  I  had  remembered.  I  told  you 
that  the  cathedral  still  lacked  its  chief  spire." 

"I  never  got  the  message.  It  was  that  day  Arch- 
ibald asked  me  to  be  his  wife.  When  did  you  send 
the  letter?" 

"It  was  not  a  letter  but  a  verbal  message,  by 
Travers." 

"That  afternoon?" 

"Yes,  that  afternoon." 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hand. 

"He — he  must  have  forgotten,"  she  said  at  last. 

"Yes,  he  must  have  forgotten,"  he  agreed  quietly. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  She  remained  motion- 
less, but  he  heard  her  breath  being  drawn  in  quick, 
painful  gasps.  The  battle  for  them  both  was  at  its 
height.  He  bent  forward  and  took  the  hand  that 
lay  clenched  in  her  lap  gently  in  his  own. 

"Dear  little  Lois,  dear  little  comrade!  We  are 
like  two  architects,  you  and  I.  We  were  very  young 
when  we  set  out  on  our  great  task,  and  no  doubt 
we  have  made  many  blunders.  In  the  beginning 
we  each  hoped  secretly  that  the  time  would  come 
when  we  should  be  able  to  crown  our  work  hand  in 
hand.  It  was  that  I  was  thinking  of  when  I  sent 
my  message.  Well,  things  have  turned  out  differ- 
ently— perhaps  through  our  own  fault.  But  the 
cathedral  must  go  on.  Instead  of  one  spire,  as  we 
had  hoped,  there  will  be  two  spires.  You  will  build 
yours,  I  mine.  They  will  be  far  apart,  and  so  we 
of  necessity  must  be  apart,  too.  But  the  cathedral  will 
go  on ;  and  in  the  end — who  knows  ? — it  may  be  more 
perfect  than  as  we  snw  it  in  our  first  great  plan." 

"But  we  might  have  built  together,  Adam !" 


JOHN     NCVYT art    HOYH1TT 


He  took  her  hand  that  lay  clutched  in  her  lap.      Page  260 


BUILDING  THE  CATHEDRAL          261 

"Yes.  We  might  even  build  together  now — but 
then  it  would  no  longer  be  a  cathedral.  It  would 
be  a  mud  hovel  like  the  rest.  And  that  would  be 
wrong — wrong  to  the  world  and  wrong  to  ourselves. 
Have  you  understood  what  I  mean?" 

He  waited  patiently,  his  hand  still  clasping  hers. 
One  single  piteous  tear  rolled  down  her  cheek,  but 
that  was  all,  and  when  she  looked  up  at  him  her 
eyes  were  calm  and  steadfast. 

"I  understand  quite  well  what  you  mean,"  she 
said,  "and  I  know  that  you  are  right.  God  bless 
and  help  you." 

"And  you,  Lois/' 

They  exchanged  a  firm  pressure.  Then  Nicholson 
rose. 

"I  must  be  going,"  he  said.  "Will  you  tell  Trav- 
ers  that  I  shall  be  around  at  the  ofHce  to-morrow 
morning?  If  by  any  chance  he  has  any  shares  go- 
ing, I  should  be  obliged  if  he  would  allot  them  to 
me." 

Lois  rose  also.  Her  face  was  turned  toward  the  door. 

"If  you  wait  one  moment,  you  will  see  him  your- 
self," she  said.  "I  think  I  hear  him  coming  up- 
stairs." 

She  was  right.  The  next  minute  the  door  opened 
quickly  and  Travers  entered.  Evidently  something 
unusual  had  happened.  In  one  hand  he  held  an 
open  telegram.  His  face  was  crimson  with  ex- 
citement and  his  lips  parted  as  if  with  a  hasty  an- 
nouncement. But  as  he  saw  the  two  standing  at  the 
table  watching  him,  he  stopped  short,  looking  from 
one  to  the  other  with  a  flash  of  amused  curiosity 
in  his  eves. 


262  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"Hullo,  you  both  here?"  he  said  cheerfully.  "How 
cozy  you  look.  See  here,  Lois,  I've  just  had  a  tele- 
gram from  the  Rajah.  He  wants  me  to  come  at  once. 
Can  you  be  ready  to  start  in  three  days?" 

"For  Marut  ?"  A  rush  of  color  filled  her  pale  cheeks. 

"Yes,  of  course.  By  the  bye,  Nicholson,  that's 
your  destination,  isn't  it?  We  might  travel  to- 
gether." 

"I  think  not,"  was  the  quiet  answer.  "I  have  or- 
ders to  start  next  week." 

"Well,  there's  no  great  hurry  for  us,  I  expect. 
Our  friend,  Nehal,  is  of  an  excitable  disposition. 
I  hope  you  haven't  had  to  wait  long  for  me,  Nichol- 
son. You  said  you  had  some  business  you  wanted 
to  talk  over  with  me." 

"Yes,  it  was  about  those  shares.  But  if  you  are 
busy—" 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  It  won't  take  more  than  a 
few  minutes  to  settle.  How  much  do  you  want  to 
invest?  I  tell  you,  my  dear  fellow,  it's  a  splendid 
thing,  and — " 

He  was  unexpectedly  interrupted.  He  had  taken 
out  a  heavy  pocket-book  and  was  busily  looking 
through  some  papers,  when  Lois  laid  her  hand  on  his. 

"I  think  Captain  Nicholson  is  under  a  misappre- 
hension, Archibald,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "He 
said  you  had  some  shares  to  sell  him,  but  I  remem- 
bered what  you  said  about  the  mine,  and  I  told 
him  that  there  must  be  some  mistake.  I  was  quite 
right,  wasn't  I?" 

Every  word  she  had  spoken  sounded  emphasized 
as  though  she  were  striving  to  convey  a  double 
meaning,  and  the  second  in  which  husband  and 


BUILDING  THE  CATHEDRAL          263 

wife  looked  at  each  other  was  to  the  puzzled  wit- 
ness a  painful  eternity.  With  a  strong  perceptible 
effort,  Travers  turned  away. 

"So  my  wife  has  broken  the  news  to  you?"  he 
said,  smiling.  "Yes,  I'm  awfully  sorry.  Every- 
thing good  gets  snapped  up  so  confoundedly  quick- 
ly. Better  luck  next  time.  I  was  quite  dreading 
disappointing  you,  but  Lois,  as  usual,  has  taken 
my  disagreeable  task  from  me."  He  patted  the 
hand  which  still  rested  on  his  own.  "Stay  and 
have  a  little  dinner  with  us,"  he  added  cordially, 
as  Nicholson  prepared  to  take  his  leave.  "I'd  like 
to  make  up  to  you  with  a  little  of  my  best  Cliquot." 

Nicholson  shook  his  head.  The  impression  that 
he  stood  before  a  veiled  and  unpleasant  comedy 
increased  his  desire  to  get  away. 

"Thanks,  I'm  afraid  I  can't,"  he  said.  "I  have 
work  to  do.  Good  night." 

"Good  night.  To  our  next  meeting  in  Marut !"  The 
two  men  shook  hands. 

"Good  night,  Mrs.  Travers.  You  will  be  able  to  be 
your  own  messenger  now,"  Nicholson  said. 

She  met  his  glance  with  quiet  courage. 

"They  will  be  able  to  see  with  their  own  eyes 
that  things  are  going  well  with  me,"  she  answered 
simply. 

When  the  door  closed  upon  Nicholson's  tall  form 
she  went  back  to  her  husband's  side.  He  was  busy 
consulting  time-tables,  and  hardly  seemed  aware 
of  her  approach.  Only  when  she  touched  him  on  the 
arm  did  he  look  up. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"I  want  to  know  if  you  are  angry?" 


264  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"What  about?" 

"The  shares — and  Captain  Nicholson.  I  felt  it 
was  wrong  to  deceive  him.  He  is  not  rich,  and  you 
told  me  that  the  mine  was  a  failure." 

"Of  course,  you  have  every  reason,  no  doubt,  to 
consider  your  friend  before  your  husband,"  he  said 
with  a  sudden  outburst  which  he  instantly  re- 
gretted. He  had  encouraged — nay,  forced — her  in- 
timacy with  Nicholson.  With  what  purpose?  He 
himself  hardly  knew.  Perhaps  somewhere  at  the 
bottom  of  him  he  was  beginning  to  dread  the  hon- 
esty of  her  character  as  an  unspoken  reproach.  If 
she  were  less  perfect  in  her  conduct,  his  own  life 
would  have  seemed  less  blamable.  Or  perhaps  his 
motives  had  been  more  generous.  He  knew  he  had 
nothing  to  give  her — and  Nicholson  was  a  good 
fellow.  At  any  rate,  it  was  a  mistake  to  have  be- 
trayed even  a  moment's  irritation.  She  had  shrunk 
back  from  him,  but  he  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder 
and  kissed  her.  "There !  Of  course  I  am  not  angry. 
You've  lost  me  a  few  hundreds,  but  you're  worth  it, 
and  I  dare  say  it  was  all  for  the  best.  Run  and 
write  a  note  to  the  Colonel  and  say  we  are  coming, 
there's  a  good  little  woman !" 

Lois  turned  wearily  away.  He  had  not  under- 
stood her.  She  considered  him  more  than  she  had 
considered  Nicholson.  She  had  wanted  to  save 
him  from  what  she  felt  was  a  mean  and  treacher- 
ous step.  But  he  had  not  been  able  to  understand. 
Nor  could  she  have  explained.  Between  certain 
characters  all  real  communication  is  an  impossi- 
bility, and  words  no  more  than  sounds. 


CHAPTER  II 

CATASTROPHE 

THE  tea-room,  usually  the  most  animated  por- 
tion of  the  Marut  club-house,  had  lost  its  cheerful 
appearance.  The  comfortable  chairs  had  been 
cleared  on  one  side  and  replaced  by  a  long  green 
baize  table  littered  with  papers ;  the  doors  leading 
on  to  the  verandah  were  closed,  and  a  stifling  at- 
mosphere bore  down  upon  the  five  occupants  who 
were  ranged  about  the  table  in  various  attitudes 
of  listless  exhaustion. 

"I  can't  think  what  we  have  been  called  here 
for,"  Mrs.  Gary  protested  loudly ;  "and  from  the 
way  we  have  been  locked  in,  we  might  be  in  a  state 
of  siege.  I  know  I  shall  faint  in  a  minute.  Beatrice, 
pass  me  my  salts,  child." 

Her  daughter  obeyed  mechanically,  without  mov- 
ing her  eyes,  which  were  fixed  in  front  of  her. 
Colonel  Carmichael,  who  was  seated  at  the  far  end 
of  the  table,  opposite  the  Rajah,  smiled  good- 
naturedly. 

"If  you  feel  yourself  justified  in  grumbling,  what 
about  me,  Mrs.  Cary?"  he  said.  "You  at  least  are 
a  share-holder,  and  I  suppose  there  are  some  formali- 
ties to  be  gone  through,  but  what  I  have  to  do  with  the 
business  I  can  not  imagine." 

"Business!"  groaned  Mrs.  Berry  from  his  right. 
265 


266  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"That's  the  silliest  part  of  it  all !  What's  the  good 
of  getting  me  to  talk  business?  I  don't  understand 
business ;  I  never  did,  and  never  shall.  Why  doesn't 
Mr.  Travers  come?  I'm  sure  I  have  been  waiting 
quite  ten  minutes." 

"Perhaps  the  Rajah  can  give  us  a  clue  to  the 
mystery,"  the  Colonel  suggested.  "Rajah,  don't 
you  think  the  ladies  could  be  allowed  their  liberty? 
I  can  not  think  that  their  presence  is  so  essential." 

Nehal  Singh  looked  up.  From  the  moment  he 
had  exchanged  nothing  more  than  a  brief  salutation 
with  the  four  Europeans,  he  had  sat  with  his  head 
bent  over  some  papers,  reading,  or  pretending  to 
read.  The  months  had  brought  a  new  expression 
to  his  face.  Pain  had  cut  her  lines  into  the  broad 
forehead ;  anxiety  met  the  Colonel's  questioning 
gaze  from  eyes  which  had  once  flashed  happy  con- 
fidence and  enthusiasm. 

"I  am  afraid  I  can  give  you  no  answer,  Colonel 
Carmichael,"  he  said  quietly.  "Since  Mr.  Travers 
has  returned  to  Marut  all  control  over  affairs  has 
passed  out  of  my  hands  into  his.  For  some  reason, 
I  have  been  kept  in  ignorance  as  to  the  progress  of 
events,  and  I  wait  here  to-day  with  you  as  com- 
pletely in  the  dark  as  any  one.  No  doubt  he  will 
be  here  in  a  few  minutes." 

"With  good  news,  I  hope,"  Mrs.  Cary  sighed.  "I 
also  am  no  sort  of  a  business  woman,  but  I  under- 
stand enough  to  know  that  if  one  invests  money 
in  an  honest  concern  one  gets  interest  sooner  or 
later.  And  so  far  the  Marut  Company  hasn't  paid 
me  a  penny  piece." 

Nehal  Singh  started  slightly,  and  his  glance  wan- 


CATASTROPHE  267 

dered  to  the  red  face  of  the  speaker  with  an  expres- 
sion that  was  akin  to  fear. 

"An  honest  concern!"  he  repeated.  "Do  you 
mean  that — that  it  is  not  honest?" 

Mrs.  Gary  beamed  with  recovered  equanimity. 

"Good  gracious !  How  could  you  suppose  I 
should  mean  such  a  horrid  thing,  dear  Prince !  Of 
course  everything  to  which  you  put  your  hand  is 
hall-marked.  Otherwise  I  should  never  have 
dreamed  of  investing  my  money  in  the  Marut  Com- 
pany." 

There  was  a  silence.  The  Colonel  drummed  with 
his  fingers  on  the  table,  watching  the  native  sentry 
who  passed  stolidly  backward  and  forward  in  front  of 
the  closed  windows.  Mrs.  Cary  fanned  herself  and  ex- 
changed whispered  comments  with  Mrs.  Berry  on  the 
opposite  side.  Beatrice  remained  motionless.  From  the 
beginning  of  the  meeting  she  had  once  raised  her  eyes — 
on  Nehal  Singh's  entry — and  then  it  had  been  for  no 
more  than  a  second.  That  second  had  been  enough.  She 
had  seen  his  face.  She  had  seen — and  it  was  not  her 
imagination,  but  a  real  and  bitter  irony — that  of  all  the 
people  in  the  room  she  alone  had  been  the  object  of  his 
quiet  greeting.  She  knew  then — for  her  eyes  had  not 
lost  their  keenness — that  the  eighteen  months  in  which 
they  had  scarcely  met  had  made  no  difference  to  him. 
He  still  reverenced  and  loved  her.  For  him  she  was 
still  "Lakshmi,"  the  goddess  of  beauty  and  perfec- 
tion; for  him  she  was  still  the  ideal,  the  woman  of 
goodness  and  truth  and  purity.  Her  victory  over 
him  had  been  complete,  eternal.  She  had  betrayed 
him  and  retained  him.  Of  all  her  triumphs  over 
men  and  circumstances  this  was  the  most  perfect. 


268  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

Yet  she  sat  there,  white  and  still,  not  lifting  her 
eyes  from  the  table,  and  seemingly  unconscious  of 
all  that  went  on  about  her. 

Presently  a  carriage  drove  up  the  avenue.  They 
heard  Travers'  voice  giving  some  orders,  and  a 
moment  later  he  himself  entered,  followed  by  a  Mr. 
Medway,  his  chief  mining  engineer.  He  closed  the 
door  and  with  a  grave  bow  took  his  place  at  the 
table.  He  seemed  indifferent  to  or  unaware  of  the 
curious  and  somewhat  anxious  glances  which  were 
turned  toward  him.  There  was  something  in  his 
appearance  which  cast  an  unpleasant  chill  over 
every  one  of  the  little  assembly.  Even  the  Colonel, 
though  an  outsider,  felt  himself  disagreeably  im- 
pressed by  Travers'  new  bearing,  and  the  good- 
natured  banter  which  he  had  held  in  readiness  for 
the  new  arrival  died  away  on  his  lips  as  he  re- 
sponded to  the  cold,  formal  bow.  For  some  min- 
utes no  one  spoke.  Travers  was  busy  arranging 
some  papers  which  he  had  brought  with  him,  and 
only  when  he  had  laid  these  out  to  his  satisfaction 
did  he  rise  to  address  the  meeting.  He  held  him- 
self stiffly  erect,  his  ringers  resting  lightly  on  the 
table,  his  pale  face  turned  toward  the  window  as 
though  he  wished  to  avoid  addressing  any  one  di- 
rectly. The  usual  geniality  was  lacking  in  his  com- 
posed features. 

"Colonel  Carmichael  and  honorable  share-holders  in 
the  Marut  Diamond  Company,"  he  began,  "you  are  no 
doubt  wondering  why  I  have  called  this  private  meet- 
ing. I  do  so  because  you  are  the  chief  partakers  in  the 
concern,  and  because,  as  my  friends,  I  wish  to  offer  you 
an  explanation  which  I  do  not  feel  bound  to  offer  to 


CATASTROPHE  269 

the  other  share-holders  within  and  without  Marut.  This 
excuse  does  not  hold  good  for  you,  Colonel  Carmichael, 
and  you  must  feel  I  am  encroaching  heavily  on  your 
valuable  time.  Nevertheless,  I  assure  you  that 
your  presence  will  assist  me  considerably  in  my 
difficult  task." 

"I  am  sure  I  shall  be  delighted  to  do  anything 
in  my  power,"  Colonel  Carmichael  responded,  "but 
I  fear  my  knowledge  of  intricate  business  details 
is  not  such  as  to  make  it  of  the  slightest  use  to 
you." 

"The  business  is  not  intricate,"  Travers  went  on. 
"Nor  do  I  propose  drawing  out  this  meeting  to  any 
tiring  length.  The  heat  must  be  very  trying  for 
the  ladies  present,  but  my  wish  to  keep  what  passes 
between  us,  at  any  rate  for  the  time  being,  entirely 
secret,  makes  it  essential  to  sit  in  closed  rooms.  I 
will  be  as  brief  as  possible.  Two  years  ago  the 
Marut  Diamond  Company  first  came  into  existence 
under  the  protection  of  our  friend,  Rajah  Nehal 
Singh.  For  some  time  previous  to  this  event  it 
had  been  my  great  ambition  to  open  out  a  diamond 
field  in  which,  thanks  to  favorable  reports,  I  sin- 
cerely believed.  My  position,  however,  and  above 
all  my  lack  of  personal  means,  made  the  scheme 
an  impossibility  so  far  as  I  was  concerned.  Chance 
brought  me  the  pleasure  and  misfortune  of  making 
your  acquaintance,  Rajah.  I  say  'misfortune,'  be- 
cause, as  events  have  turned,  I  can  not  but  feel  that  my 
casual  observations  led  you  to  enter  into  an  enter- 
prise before  which  another  man,  if  I  may  say  so, 
with  more  experience  and  less  impulse,  would  have 
hesitated. 


270  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"Your  generosity  and  enthusiasm  brought  my  half- 
conceived  plans  into  a  reality  almost  before  I  had  any 
clear  idea  as  to  whither  we  were  all  drifting.  You  will 
remember,  Mrs.  Gary,  I  did  my  best  to  dissuade  you 
from  any  rash  investment ;  and  even  there,  as  director 
of  the  company,  I  felt  that  I  was  not  acting  with  entire 
loyalty  to  the  man  who  had  put  me  into  that  position. 
The  responsibility  of  the  whole  matter  rested  heavily 
on  my  shoulders,  and  grew  still  heavier  as  the  circle 
of  share-holders  without  Marut  increased.  I  felt 
that,  should  my  first  hopes  prove  unfounded,  my 
friends  and  many  others  would  suffer  losses  which 
they  could  ill  afford  to  bear.  Ladies  and  gentle- 
men, it  is  my  painful  duty  to  tell  you  that  the 
dreaded  collapse  has  come.  Mr.  Medway,  here,  the 
company's  chief  engineer  and  mining  expert,  in- 
formed me  yesterday  that  any  continuation  of  the 
works  was  useless  and  a  mere  waste  of  the  share- 
holders' money.  I  therefore  beg  to  announce  to 
you  that  the  Marut  Diamond  Company  Mine  is 
definitely  closed." 

The  Colonel  clenched  his  teeth  half-way  through 
the  first  oath  he  had  ever  allowed  himself  in  the 
presence  of  ladies.  He  was  not  an  unusually  ego- 
istical man,  but  his  first  thought  was  one  of  un- 
utterable gratitude  that  in  the  moment  of  strong 
temptation  his  wife  had  held  an  obstinate  hand  on 
the  purse-strings. 

The  first  person  to  speak  was  Mrs.  Cary.  She 
leaned  half-way  across  the  table. 

"And  my  money?"  she  said  thickly  and  unstead- 
ily. "Where's  my  money?  Where's  my  money? 
Tell  me  that!" 


CATASTROPHE  271 

Travers  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  fear  it  has  gone  the  way  of  mine  and  of  the 
other  share-holders'/'  he  said.  "Nor  can  I  hold  out 
any  hopes  of  its  coming  back.  The  expenses  of  the 
mine  have  been  terribly  heavy,  the  workmen  have 
been  extremely  well  paid — extremely  well  paid." 
There  was  a  distinct  note  of  reproach  in  his  voice, 
though  he  looked  at  no  one. 

Mrs.  Gary  sat  down  in  her  seat.  It  was  a  pitiful 
and  almost  terrible  sight  to  see  her,  all  the  florid, 
vulgar  ostentation  and  sleek  content  dashed  out 
of  her,  leaving  her  with  pasty  cheeks  and  horror- 
stricken,  staring  eyes  to  face  the  ruined  future. 
Mrs.  Berry  burst  into  ever-ready  tears. 

"Oh!"  she  sobbed.  "What  will  my  husband  say! 
I  told  him  it  was  such  a  good  thing — it  isn't  my 
fault.  What  will  he  say!" 

The  sharp,  wailing  tones  broke  through  Mrs. 
Gary's  momentary  paralysis.  She  sat  up  and  brought 
her  fat  clenched  fist  down  with  a  bang  upon  the 
table. 

"You !"  she  half  screamed  at  the  Rajah.  "You— 
you  black  swindler — you  thief — it's  you  who  have 
done  it — you  who  have  ruined  us  all  with  your 
wicked  schemes.  You  baited  us  with  this  club- 
house— you  pretended  you  wanted  to  do  us  such 
a  lot  of  good,  didn't  you?  And  all  the  time  you 
meant  to  feather  your  own  nest  with  diamonds  and 
the  Lord  knows  what.  Give  us  back  our  money, 
you  heathen  swindler!  For  you  aren't  a  Christian! 
You  pretended  that,  too,  just  as  a  blind — 

Her  flow  of  frightful  coarse  invectives  came  to 
an  abrupt  end.  Colonel  Carmichael,  who  knew  now 


272  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

why  his  presence  had  been  required,  leaned  forward 
and  pushed  her  firmly  down  in  her  seat. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Mrs.  Gary,  hold  your 
tongue !"  he  expostulated,  in  a  rapid,  emphatic  un- 
dertone. "You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying. 
You  are  not  in  England.  A  little  more  of  that  sort 
of  thing,  and  our  lives  aren't  worth  an  hour's  pur- 
chase." 

"I  don't  care,"  she  retorted,  with  all  the  head- 
long brutality  of  her  origin.  "It's  true  what  I  say ! 
It's  true !" 

"It  is  true."  The  interruption  came  from  the 
Rajah  himself.  He  had  risen  and  stood  before  them, 
very  pale,  but  calm  and  composed,  his  eyes  fixed 
with  haggard  resolution  on  the  furious  face  of  his 
accuser.  "It  is  true.  I  am  a  swindler.  I  have 
ruined  you  all.  Why  should  you  believe  it  was 
done  unwittingly?  Yet  that  is  true  also.  I,  like 
my  poor  friend  here  whom  I  used  as  my  tool,  believed 
that  I  was  doing  the  best  for  you  all.  But  I  have 
ruined  you.  I  have  done  worse  than  that — I  have 
ruined  my  country,  my  people.  You  have  friends 
who  will  help  you  in  your  distress,  but  who  will 
help  my  people?  I  pulled  them  out  of  their  miser- 
able homes  only  to  cast  them  into  deeper  misery. 
I  have  taken  their  pitiful  savings,  meaning,  without 
the  use  of  charity,  to  increase  them  tenfold.  I  have 
taken  everything  from  them.  I  gave  a  hope,  and 
have  left  them  with  a  deeper  despair.  Not  all  my 
wealth — and  not  a  stone,  not  a  farthing  piece  shall 
be  held  back  from  your  and  their  just  claims  upon 
me — will  fill  up  the  ruin  of  those  I  wished  so  well. 
It  is  true — I  stand  before  you  all  a  dishonored  man." 


CATASTROPHE  273 

There  was  a  moment's  petrified  silence.  Even 
Mrs.  Gary's  coarse  nature  stood  baffled  before 
this  pitiless,  dignified  self-accusal.  Nor  could  the 
Colonel  find  a  word  to  say.  He  had  been  ready — 
knowing  the  native  character — to  defend  Mrs.  Cary 
from  the  stroke  of  a  revenging  dagger.  His  half- 
outstretched  arm  sank  powerless  before  the  stroke 
of  these  few  words,  spoken  with  a  calm  which  thinly 
covered  a  chaos  of  remorse  and  broken-hearted 
grief. 

"I  have  a  question  I  should  like  to  ask  you,  Mr. 
Travers." 

There  was  a  general  uneasy  start.  Each  shook 
off  his  brooding  considerations  and  turned  with 
surprise  to  this  unexpected  speaker.  It  was  Bea- 
trice, hitherto  silent  and  apparently  unmoved,  who 
leaned  across  to  Travers.  He  himself  felt  the  blood 
rise  to  his  face.  In  his  absorbed  state  he  had  not 
noticed  her  presence,  and  now  that  he  met  her  cold 
eyes  a  curious  discomfort  crept  over  him — a  dis- 
comfort that  was  nearly  fear. 

"I  will  answer  your  question  to  the  best  of  my 
ability,"  he  said  quietly. 

"The  Rajah  has  spoken  of  you  as  his  tool,  and  I 
think  from  your  tone  that  you  think  yourself  ag- 
grieved. In  what  way  have  you  suffered?  What 
is  your  share  of  the  losses  ?" 

"I  have  lost  all  I  have." 

"All  you  have,  no  doubt.  But  your  wife  is  very 
rich,  and  I  believe  has  grown  richer  within  the  last 
year.  I  am  anxious  to  know  if  you  intend  to  fol- 
low the  Rajah's  generous  example  and  meet  your 
liabilities  with  her  fortune." 


274  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

The  Colonel,  who  had  been  staring  vacantly  at 
her,  gave  a  start  of  recollection. 

"Yes!"  he  exclaimed  energetically.  "The  settle- 
ment and  Lois'  own  money — what's  become  of  it 
all?  Has  that  gone,  too?" 

"Of  course  not."  Travers'  hand  tightened  in- 
stinctively upon  the  arm  of  his  chair.  "I  should 
never  have  dreamed  of  touching  what  was  my  wife's 
personal  property.  Nor  do  I  intend  to  do  so  now. 
I  am  no  more  than  the  manager  of  the  company— 
I  am  not  responsible  for  its  liabilities.  Miss  Gary's 
suggestion  is  beside  the  mark,  and  I  warn  her,  for 
her  own  advantage" — there  was  a  somewhat  un- 
pleasant note  of  warning  in  his  rough  voice — "not 
to  pursue  her  questions  further." 

Beatrice  rose  to  her  feet.  She  was  calm  and, 
save  for  the  vivid  color  in  her  cheeks,  betrayed 
at  first  little  of  the  seething  storm  of  indignation 
which  rose  gradually  above  the  barriers  of  her  self- 
control.  She  did  not  look  at  the  Rajah.  She  stared 
straight  into  Travers'  face,  and  once  she  pointed  at 
him. 

"You  have  been  good  enough  to  threaten  me," 
she  said.  "It  would  be  best  for  you  to  know  at 
once  that  your  threats  are  quite  useless.  There  is 
nothing  you  can  say  about  me  which  I  am  not 
ready  to  say  myself — and  there  is  nothing  you  can 
do  which  will  prevent  me  from  revealing  the  true 
facts  of  this  case.  You  have  feathered  your  nest, 
Mr.  Travers.  That  is  what  you  told  me  to  do,  and 
now  I  understand  what  you  meant.  You  saw  this 
ruin  coming  at  the  very  time  that  you  were  en- 
couraging every  one  to  partake  further  of  the  com- 


O 

Q 


CATASTROPHE  275 

pany's  future  success.  You  honored  me,  as  a  sort 
of  accomplice,  with  a  private  piece  of  advice.  Thank 
God,  I  did  not  take  it,  for  then  I  should  have  been  your 
debtor. 

"As  it  is,  I  owe  you  absolutely  nothing — not  even 
the  wealthy  husband  you  promised  me.  There  is  a 
bottom  to  my  depths.  And  even  if  I  did  owe  you 
something,  I  should  not  hesitate  to  speak.  You  can 
call  me  a  traitor  if  you  like — I  don't  care.  I  am  that — 
and  I  have  been  far  worse  than  that  to  a  man  who  did 
not  deserve  it — and  I  have,  anyhow,  not  much  reputa- 
tion to  lose.  Besides,  you  have  stood  by  without  a 
word  and  let  an  innocent  man  bear  your  burden,  and 
for  that  alone  you  have  no  right  to  claim  loyalty  from 
another." 

She  turned  for  the  first  time  to  Nehal  Singh,  and  met 
his  gaze  boldly  and  recklessly.  "Do  not  stand  there  and 
call  yourself  a  dishonored  man !"  she  exclaimed  with 
increasing  force.  "You  are  not  dishonored.  Do  not 
call  Mr.  Travers  your  'tool.'  He  is  not  your  tool, 
and  never  has  been.  You  are  his  tool, — his  and 
mine  \"  She  paused,  catching  her  breath  as  she  saw 
him  wince.  Then  she  went  on :  "Don't  burden 
yourself  with  the  consciences  of  us  all,  for  we  have 
not  got  any ;  and  what  has  been  done  we  have  done 
knowingly  and  wilfully.  Do  you  remember  that  eve- 
ning when  you  found  me  in  the  temple  ?  You  thought 
it  was — chance — or — or  the  hand  of  God.  Why,  Mr. 
Travers  hired  one  of  your  old  servants  to  slip  me 
through  by  the  secret  path,  and  I  had  on  my  prettiest 
frock  and  my  prettiest  smile  and  my  prettiest  ways — as 
I  told  them  all  afterward  at  a  dinner-party — pious 
goodness,  with  a  relieving  touch  of  the  devil — just  to 


276  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

tempt  you  out  of  your  cloister  and  make  you  do  what 
we  wanted. 

"You  followed  like  a  lamb.  It  took  five  minutes  to 
wheedle  the  club-house  out  of  you — five  minutes, 
I  think  you  told  me,  Mr.  Travers? — and  the  other 
things  went  just  as  smoothly.  Do  you  remember 
that  ride  we  had  together  after  Mr.  Travers'  dance? 
He  had  broached  the  subject  of  the  mine,  but  the 
next  day  something  or  other  seemed  to  have  shaken 
your  implicit  belief  in  our  integrity  and  general 
holiness.  At  any  rate,  you  asked  me  for  my  ad- 
vice— rny  honest  advice.  I  gave  it  you.  I  told  you 
to  go  ahead — that  Mr.  Travers  was  an  angel  of 
goodness  and  perfection.  That  was  what  he  sug- 
gested I  should  say,  in  a  note  he  had  sent  me  an 
hour  before.  So  you  went  ahead.  You  did  the 
dirty  work  for  him,  and  took  his  responsibility  upon 
your  shoulders.  You  have  ruined  a  few  of  us  inci- 
dentally, but  above  all  things  you  have  ruined  your- 
self and  your  people.  Mr.  Travers  is  unharmed. 
He  has  his  wife's  money." 

She  paused  to  gather  her  strength  for  a  final  effort. 
"So  much  for  Mr.  Travers'  and  my  partnership.  I 
did  my  share  of  the  work  to  shield  myself  and  my 
mother  from  a  trouble  which  must  now  go  its  way. 
But  after  that,  I  played  my  own  game.  I  did  not 
want  to  lose  you — even  though  I  knew  quite  well 
that  you  cared  for  me,  and  that  I  should  never 
marry  you.  Months  before  I  had  made  up  my  mind 
to  marry  a  man  with  a  high  position  and  money. 
It  was  just  a  game  I  was  playing  with  you.  Even 
when  you  forced  things  to  a  head,  I  kept  it  up.  I 
pretended  innocency  and  high  motives — because  I 


CATASTROPHE  277 

wanted  to  feel  you  at  my  apron-strings  always.  We 
all  treated  you  more  or  less  badly,  but  I  was  the 
worst.  I  fooled  you — for — for — " 

"For  what?" 

His  voice  burst  from  him,  harsh  and  terrible  as 
though  it  had  been  torn  from  the  bottom  of  a  tortured 
soul. 

"For  the  fun  of  the  thing." 

Among  the  seven  present  there  was  no  move- 
ment, no  sound.  Scarcely  one  seemed  to  breathe 
or  be  alive  except  the  woman  who  stood  there,  her 
breast  heaving,  a  twisted  smile  of  wild  self-mock- 
ery on  her  ashy  lips. 

Nehal  Singh  turned  and  went  to  the  door.  There 
he  stopped  and  looked  back  at  her  and  the  little 
group  of  which  she  formed  the  central  figure.  Then 
he  made  a  gesture — one  single  gesture.  He  raised 
his  hand  high  above  his  head  and  brought  it  down, 
palm  downward.  In  that  movement  there  was  a 
contempt,  a  scorn,  a  bitterness  so  profound  that 
it  seemed  to  mingle  with  a  terrible  pity ;  but  above 
all  there  was  a  final  severing,  a  breaking  of  the 
last  link  which  bound  them.  The  next  minute  the 
door  closed  behind  him. 

How  long  the  silence  that  followed  lasted  no  one 
knew.  It  was  broken  by  Mrs.  Gary,  who  flung 
herself  face  downward  on  the  table,  and  burst  into 
wild,  uncontrollable  sobs. 

"Oh,  Beaty!"  she  moaned.  "Our  reputations — 
our  good  name!  How  could  you  have  told  such 
wicked  stories  about  yourself  and  poor  Mr.  Travers ! 
How  could  you!" 

Colonel   Carmichael   shook  his  head.       He  was 


278  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

overwhelmed  by  a  cross-current  of  conflicting  emo- 
tions to  which  he  could  give  no  name. 

"True  or  not  true,  your — eh — statement  has  got 
us  into  a  pretty  mess,  Miss  Gary,"  he  said.  "You 
have  played  with  fire.  Pray  Heaven  that  it  has 
not  set  light  to  Marut!" 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him.  In  that  pale  face 
upon  which  had  sunk  the  light  of  a  sudden  peace 
the  Colonel  read  something  which  sent  his  blunt 
instinct  searching  wildly  for  a  solution. 

"I  did  what  I  had  to  do,  Colonel  Carmichael," 
she  said.  "Come,  mother,  we  must  go  home." 


CHAPTER  III 

A  FAREWELL 

JOHN  STAFFORD  sat  at  his  table  by  the  open  door 
which  looked  on  to  the  garden.  The  room  behind 
him  was  bare  of  all  graceful  or  even  tasteful  orna- 
ment— a  few  native  weapons,  captured  probably 
during  small  frontier  wars,  hung  on  the  wall,  but 
nothing  else  relieved  its  blank,  whitewashed  monot- 
ony. The  one  photograph  of  his  father  which  had 
once  been  fastened  above  the  mantelpiece  had  been 
taken  down  months  before  and  the  hole  made  by 
the  nail  carefully  and  methodically  filled  and  painted 
over.  The  room  typified  the  man  in  its  painful 
order,  its  painful  whitewashed  cleanliness,  its  rigid 
plainness.  But  the  garden  was  the  symbol  of  the 
hidden  possibility  in  him,  the  corner  of  warm,  im- 
pulsive feeling  which  the  world  had  never  seen. 
The  roses  grew  up  to  the  very  steps  of  the  veran- 
dah ;  they  had  been  trained  to  clamber  over  the 
trellis-work  as  though  seeking  to  gain  entrance  to 
his  room ;  they  spread  themselves  in  rich,  glowing 
variety  over  the  little  patch  of  ground,  and  one  of 
their  number,  the  most  lovely  and  fullest  blown, 
hung  her  heavy  head  in  splendid  isolation  from  the 
vase  upon  his  table. 

He  looked  at  the  rose  and  he  looked  at  the  gar- 
den, on  which  lay  the  first  clear  rays  of  the  rising 

279 


280  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

sun.  In  him  stirred  a  rare  wistfulness,  a  rare  mel- 
ancholy. For  to  him  all  the  gentler,  softer  forms 
of  sorrow  were  rare.  In  the  last  year  he  had  suf- 
fered, but  in  his  own  way — rigidly,  coldly,  unbend- 
ingly. His  lips,  even  in  the  loneliness  of  his  own 
room,  had  always  been  tight  closed  over  the  smoth- 
ered exclamation  of  pain.  He  had  gone  on  steadily 
and  conscientiously  with  his  work.  He  had  never 
for  one  moment  "given  way  to  himself,"  as  he  ex- 
pressed it.  But  this  morning  he  was  in  the  power 
of  that  strange  "atmosphere" — call  it  what  you  will 
— which  we  feel  when  still  only  half  awake,  and  which, 
independent  of  all  outward  circumstances,  destines 
our  day's  mood  of  cheerfulness  or  depression. 
Strangely  enough,  he  had  made  no  struggle  against 
it — he  had  yielded  to  it  with  a  sense  of  inevitable- 
ness. 

The  inevitable  compassed  him  about  and  numbed 
his  stern,  merciless  system  of  self-repression.  Fate,  ir- 
resistible and  unchangeable,  obscured  the  clear  path  of 
duty  which  he  had  marked  out  for  himself,  and  held 
him  for  the  moment  her  passive  victim.  It  was  no  idle 
fancy.  He  was  not  a  man  in  whose  thought-world  fan- 
cy played  any  part.  Nor  was  it  the  gloomy  impression 
which  a  lonely  twilight  might  have  stamped  upon  a 
mind  already  burdened  with  a  heavy  weight  of  trouble. 
The  young  day  spread  her  halo  of  pure  sunshine  over 
a  world  of  color ;  the  red  rose  upon  his  table  bowed  her 
head  toward  him  in  the  perfection  of  a  mature  beauty 
which  as  yet  hid  no  warning  of  decay.  But  in  the 
sunshine  he  saw  the  shadow;  the  daylight  foretold 
the  night;  his  eyes  saw  the  withered  petals  of  the 
rose  strewn  before  him.  In  vain  he  had  striven  to 


A  FAREWELL  281 

see  beyond  the  night  to  the  as  inevitable  to-mor- 
row; in  vain  he  had  pictured  the  rose  which  his 
careful  hand  would  bring  to  replace  her  dead  sister. 
The  future  was  a  blank  dead  wall  whose  heights 
his  foresight  could  not  scale. 

Before  him  on  the  table  lay  a  closed  and  sealed 
envelope.  It  contained  his  will,  which  half  an  hour 
before  he  had  signed  in  the  presence  of  two  com- 
rades. He  wondered  what  the  world  would  say 
when  it  was  opened — and  when  it  would  be  opened. 

Presently  the  curtains  behind  him  were  pushed 
quietly  on  one  side.  He  did  not  turn  around.  He 
supposed  it  was  his  native  servant  with  the  cup  of 
coffee  which  formed  his  early  morning  refreshment ; 
but  the  soft  step  across  the  uncarpeted  floor,  the 
rustle  of  a  woman's  dress  startled  him  from  his  il- 
lusion. He  turned  and  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Beatrice!"  he  exclaimed. 

She  came  toward  him  with  outstretched  hand. 

"May  I  speak  with  you  for  a  few  minutes,  John?" 
she  asked. 

His  first  impulse  to  protest  against  her  reckless 
disregard  of  propriety  died  away  on  his  lips.  Some- 
thing on  her  white  earnest  face  touched  him — all 
the  more  perhaps  because  it  linked  itself  with  his  own 
mood.  He  brought  a  chair — his  own,  for  the  room 
boasted  of  but  one. 

"Are  you  angry?"  she  asked  again,  looking  up  at 
him. 

"At  your  coming?  No.  At  another  time  I  might 
have  warned  you  that  it  was  not  wise,  but  I  feel 
sure  you  would  not  have  run  so  much  risk  without 
a  serious  and  adequate  reason." 


282  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

She  nodded. 

"Yes,  I  have  a  very  serious  reason,"  she  said. 
"Have  you  time  to  spare?" 

"All  the  morning." 

"Were  you  on  duty  last  night?" 

"For  the  best  part." 

"Is  that  why  you  look  so  tired  and  ill?" 

He  smiled  faintly. 

"I  might  reply  with  a  tu  quoque.  But  that  doesn't 
matter.  You  have  some  trouble  to  tell  me.  What 
has  happened?" 

"You  have  heard  nothing?" 

"Nothing  whatever."  He  drew  a  stool  toward  him 
and  seated  himself  at  her  side.  "You  know,  I  am  not 
a  person  to  whom  gossip  drifts  quickly." 

"It's  not  gossip — it's  truth.  The  Marut  Diamond 
Company  is  closed — for  good  and  all." 

"You  mean — it  has  gone  smash?" 

"Completely — and  we  with  it." 

He  sat  silent  for  a  moment,  his  head  resting  thought- 
fully on  his  hand. 

"I  suppose  it  had  to  come,"  he  said  at  last.  "Some- 
how, it  always  seemed  to  me  that  the  concern  was 
doomed.  The  foundations  weren't  honest.  The 
Rajah  was  more  or  less  beguiled  into  it — "  He 
broke  off,  turning  crimson  with  vexation.  "I  beg 
your  pardon,  Beatrice.  I  forgot  that  that  was  one 
of  your — escapades." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily,  and  he  was  struck 
and  again  strangely  moved  by  her  pale  beauty.  He 
had  never  seen  her  so  gentle,  so  free  from  her  cold 
and  mocking  gaiety. 

"You  must  not  apologize.    And  do  not  smooth  over 


A  FAREWELL  283 

a  mean,  low  trick  with  the  name  of  an  escapade.  It 
was  not  an  escapade,  for  an  escapade  is  the  overflow 
of  high  and  reckless  spirits,  and  what  I  did  was  done 
in  cold  blood  and  with  a  purpose.  I  have  come  to  tell 
you  about  that  purpose." 

He  could  not  repress  a  movement  of  surprise. 

"Surely  you  have  something  more  serious  on 
your  mind  than  that?  If,  as  you  say,  your — your 
financial  position  has  been  rendered  precarious  by 
this  failure  of  the  Marut  Company,  would  it  not 
be  advisable  to  hurry  on  our  marriage  at  once?  Of 
course,  in  the  meanwhile,  if  I  can  do  anything  to 
help  your  mother — " 

She  touched  him  gently  on  the  arm. 

"I  told  you  I  had  come  on  a  serious  matter,"  she 
said.  "Won't  you  let  me  tell  you  what  it  is?" 

"Of  course,  Beatrice,  of  course.  Only  I  thought 
that  was  the  serious  matter." 

"It  is  perhaps  for  my  mother,  but  not  for  me. 
Things  have  changed  their  value  in  my  life.  Just 
now  I  feel  there  is  only  one  thing  that  has  any 
value  at  all,  and  that  is  freedom." 

"From  what?  I  do  not  understand.  Do  you 
mean  from  debt?" 

She  smiled  sadly. 

"Yes,  from  debt.  John,  I  want  to  ask  you  an  hon- 
est question  honestly.  Why  did  you  ask  me  to  be- 
come your  wife?" 

He  moved  uneasily. 

"Why  do  you  ask?  Surely  we  understand  each 
other." 

"We  did,  perhaps,  but  I  have  told  you  that  things 
have  changed.  Won't  you  answer  me?" 


284  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"I  asked  you — because  I  wished  you  to  be  my 
wife,"  he  returned  stubbornly. 

"John,  isn't  that  rather  a  lame  equivocation?" 

He  stared  at  her  with  heavy,  troubled  eyes. 

"Yes,  it  was.  But  the  truth  might  hurt  you, 
Beatrice." 

"No,  it  wouldn't.  Nothing  can  hurt  so  much  in 
the  end  as  lies  and  humbug." 

"Well,  then,  I  asked  you  to  become  my  wife  be- 
cause I  believed  that  my  conduct  had  put  you  into 
a  wrong  and  painful  situation  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world." 

"Nothing  else?" 

"I  wished  to  prove  to  Lois  that  I  could  never  be 
her  husband." 

"You  were  afraid  that  she  would  see  through 
your  pretense  to  your  unchanged  affection  for  her?" 

He  started. 

"Beatrice,  how  do  you  know?" 

"Look  in  your  own  glass,  John.  Yours  isn't  the 
face  of  a  man  who  has  shaken  off  an  old  attachment." 

He  rose  and  stood  with  his  back  half  turned  to 
her,  playing  idly  with  the  papers  on  the  table. 

"You  are  partly  right,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's 
silence,  "but  not  quite.  I  have  more  on  my  shoulders 
than  that;  I  have  a  heavy  responsibility — a  debt 
to  pay." 

"You,  too?"  she  asked,  with  a  return  of  the  half- 
melancholy,  half-bitter  smile.  "Have  you  also  a 
debt?" 

"Not  of  my  making,"  was  the  answer.  The  voice 
rang  suddenly  stern  and  harsh,  and  Beatrice  saw 
him  look  up  suddenly,  as  though  instinctively  seek- 


A  FAREWELL  285 

ing  something  on  the  wall.  "Beatrice,  you  must 
know  that  my  actions  are  dictated  by  motives  which 
I  can  not  for  many  reasons  give  to  the  world.  For  one 
thing,  I  have  given  my  promise ;  for  another,  my  own 
judgment  tells  me  that  it  is  better  for  every  one  that  I 
should  be  silent.  But  I  am  free  to  say  this  much  to  you 
— I  am  not  a  dishonorable  man  who  has  played  lightly 
with  the  affections  of  an  innocent  girl.  I  have  acted 
toward  Lois  as  I  believe  will  be  for  her  ultimate  happi- 
ness— I  have  shielded  her  from  a  misfortune,  a  punish- 
ment I  might  say,  which  would  have  fallen  unjustly  on 
her  shoulders.  I  have  taken  a  burden  upon  my 
shoulders  because  I  love  her — and  I  have  the  right 
to  love  her — but  chiefly  because  it  is  my  duty  to 
do  so.  Where  there  is  sin,  Beatrice,  there  must  also  be 
atonement,  otherwise  its  consequences  can  never 
be  wiped  out.  I  have  chosen  to  atone." 

Beatrice  made  no  attempt  to  question  him.  Her 
eyes  fell  thoughtfully  on  the  gaunt  face,  and  for 
the  first  time  she  appreciated  to  the  full  what  was 
great  and  generous  in  the  nature  she  had  con- 
demned all  too  often  as  narrow  and  unbending. 
Whatever  else  he  was,  this  man  was  no  Pharisee. 
If  he  was  narrow,  he  allowed  himself  no  license; 
if  unbending,  he  was  at  least  least  of  all  relenting 
toward  his  own  conduct.  She  pitied  him  and  she 
respected  him,  even  though  she  could  not  under- 
stand his  motives  nor  guess  the  weight  of  the  re- 
sponsibility which  he  had  taken  upon  himself. 

"I  can  not  reproach  you  with  deception,"  she  said 
at  last.  "You  never  pretended  that  you  loved  me, 
and  on  my  side  I  think  the  matter  was  pretty  clear. 
I  intended  to  marry  you  for  your  position.  After- 


286  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

ward  money  added  a  further  incentive.  I  saw  the  loss 
of  our  own  fortune  coming.  Travers  warned  me  on 
the  same  day  that  we  became  engaged." 

A  dark  flood  of  indignant  blood  rushed  to  Staf- 
ford's forehead. 

"The  man  is  an  unscrupulous  adventurer — no 
doubt  he  has  safeguarded  his  own  interest  carefully 
enough,"  he  exclaimed  bitterly. 

"You  are  quite  right.  His  wife  has  all  the  money, 
and  he  has  taken  care  that  it  should  be  well  tied 
up  and  out  of  reach.  That  is  what  my  father  did." 

He  turned  to  her  again. 

"Your  father?" 

"Yes,  my  father,"  she  repeated,  meeting  his  eyes 
gravely  and  unflinchingly.  "He  tried  to  do  what 
Travers  did.  But  he  wasn't  quite  so  clever.  He 
ran  too  close  to  the  wind,  as  he  said  himself,  and 
they  put  him  in  prison.  He  died  there." 

He  stood  looking  at  her  with  a  new  interest.  He 
too,  was  beginning  to  understand.  The  bitter  line 
about  the  mouth  was  not  the  expression  of  a  hard, 
unfeeling  heart  after  all,  then,  and  the  sharp,  mock- 
ing laugh  which  had  jarred  so  often  on  his  ears  was 
not  the  echo  of  a  shallow,  worthless  character? 
They  were  no  more  than  the  deep  wounds  left  after 
a  rough  battle  with  a  world  that  knows  no  pity 
for  those  branded  with  inherited  shame  and  dis- 
honor. He  had  misjudged  her.  There  were  unlimited 
possibilities  of  nobility  and  goodness  in  the  beautiful 
face  lifted  to  his.  But  he  said  nothing  of  the  thoughts 
that  flashed  through  his  mind.  In  moments  of  crisis 
we  always  speak  of  what  is  least  important. 


A  FAREWELL  287 

"And  you  managed  to  keep  it  a  secret  in  Marut?" 
he  asked. 

"Yes,  it  was  a  marvel,  wasn't  it?" — her  eyes 
brightening  with  a  spark  of  the  old  fun.  "We  lived 
in  a  constant  state  of  alarms  and  excursions.  But 
Mr.  Travers  did  what  he  could.  He  knew  all  about 
it,  and  he  helped  us." 

"On  conditions,  no  doubt?" 

"Of  course,  on  conditions.  But  he  said,  quite 
truthfully,  that  he  had  no  idea  of  blackmailing  me. 
It  was  just  a  fair  bargain  between  us."  She  paused 
a  little  before  she  went  on :  "Now,  you  understand 
what  brought  us  to  Marut,  and  what  made  you 
such  a  desirable  catch.  We  wanted  to  get  clear 
away  from  the  past  and  build  up  a  new  life.  But 
we  couldn't.  One  can't  build  up  anything  on  a  lie." 

"That  is  true,"  he  returned  sternly,  "and  yet  this 
is  hardly  a  time  for  you  to  talk  of  your  failure. 
From  the  moment  that  you  are  my  wife — " 

"But,  John,  that's  what  I  never  shall  be."  She 
laughed  wearily.  "Do  you  think  a  clever  woman 
would  own  up  to  an  unpleasant  past  to  the  man 
she  wanted  to  marry?  And  if  you  want  to  hear 
more  detestable  things  about  me,  ask  the  Colonel, 
ask  Mrs.  Berry,  ask  the  Rajah.  They  know  all 
about  me,  for  I  told  them  yesterday.  You  don't 
need  to  look  so  white  and  haggard.  I  am  not  going 
to  marry  you.  That  is  what  I  came  to  say.  And 
I  wanted  to  explain  everything,  and  to  ask  you,  if 
you  can,  to  forgive  me  all  the  trouble  I  have 
brought  upon  you."  She  rose,  and  held  out  her 
hand  to  him.  "Will  you  shake  hands,  John?" 


288  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

He  stood  motionless  by  the  table,  watching  her 
with  a  last  stirring  of  the  old  distrust. 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  he  said  bluntly,  and 
in  truth  he  did  not.  This  pale-faced  woman  with 
the  earnest  eyes  deep  underlined  with  the  marks 
of  sleepless  nights  was  a  riddle  which  his  stiff,  con- 
ventional imagination  could  not  solve. 

"Is  it  necessary  that  you  should  understand?" 
she  answered.  "I  have  not  asked  you  to  explain 
why,  still  loving  her,  you  threw  Lois  over.  I  be- 
lieve that  you  had  some  grave  reason.  It  could  not 
be  graver  than  mine  for  doing  what  I  am  doing." 

"Then  you  mean  that — it  is  entirely  over  between 
us?" 

"Yes,  it  is  over  between  us.  Your  sense  of  jus- 
tice will  not  have  to  undergo  the  ordeal  of  forcing 
your  sense  of  honor  to  link  itself  with  dishonor. 
To  your  credit,  I  believe  you  would  have  married 
me,  John,  and  I  am  grateful.  But  there's  an  end 
of  it.  I  have  come  to  say  good-by.  I  suppose  it  is  ab- 
surd, but  I  wish  we  could  remain  friends." 

This  time  he  took  her  hand  in  his.  Now  that 
the  artificial  union  between  them  was  done  away 
with,  their  real  friendship  for  each  other  came  back 
and  took  its  rightful  place  in  their  lives. 

"Why  shouldn't  we,  Beatrice?"  he  said.  "Heaven 
knows,  we  both  have  need  of  friends." 

"It  is  a  strange  thing,"  she  continued  thought- 
fully, "that,  though  you  are  so  completely  my  op- 
posite, I  have  always  liked  you.  Even  when  you 
most  jarred  upon  me  with  your  prunes-and-prisms 
morality,  I  was  never  able  quite  to  close  my  heart.  I 
wonder  why?" 


A  FAREWELL  289 

He  could  not  repress  a  faint  amusement  at  the 
flash  of  her  old  self. 

"It  has  been  the  same  with  me,"  he  said.  "Even 
when  you  trod  on  all  my  principles  at  once,  I  haven't 
been  able  to  smother  a  sort  of  shamefaced  respect 
for  you.  You  always  seemed  more  worthy  of  re- 
spect than — well,  some  of  the  others." 

"I  suppose  it  is  our  sincerity,"  she  said.  "You 
are  sincere  in  your  goodness,  and  I,  paradoxical  as 
it  sounds,  in  my  badness." 

"I  think  not,"  he  answered,  looking  her  gravely 
in  the  face.  "I  think  it  is  because  the  hidden  best  in 
both  of  us  recognized  each  other  and  held  out  the  hand 
of  friendship  almost  without  our  knowing." 

She  smiled,  but  he  saw  a  light  sparkle  in  her 
eyes. 

"Oh,  practical  John,  you  are  making  fast  progress 
in  the  soul's  world!  Who  has  taught  you?" 

He  turned  away  from  her  back  to  the  table  and 
stood  there  gazing  out  over  the  garden. 

"No  one.  It  is  a  mood  I  have  on  to-day  which 
makes  me  see  clearer  than  I  have  done  before.  Go 
now — if  any  one  saw  you  .here,  you  know  what 
Marut  would  say." 

"Yes,  I  know  Marut  very  well  by  now.  Not  that 
it  much  matters.  Good-by.  Please — I  found  my  way 
alone ;  I  can  find  the  way  out." 

She  had  reached  the  door  before  he  stopped  her. 

"Beatrice !" 

She  turned. 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you— or  rather,  I  have 
a  trust  to  put  in  your  hands.  It  is  in  a  sort  of  way 


290  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

• 

the  seal  upon  our  good  understanding.  There  is 
no  one  else  whom  I  could  trust  so  much." 

She  came  back  to  his  side.  A  new  color  was  in  her 
cheeks.  Her  eyes  looked  less  tired,  less  hopeless. 

"A  trust?    That  would  make  life  worth  living." 

He  took  up  the  packet  on  the  table  and  gave  it  to  her. 

"That  is  my  will.  I  made  it  afresh  last  night.  It 
was  witnessed  this  morning.  In  it  I  have  made  you 
my  executrix,  with  half  my  estate.  The  other  half  I 
have  left  to  Lois." 

"Now  you  must  leave  it  all  to  her,"  she  said. 

"No,  I  wish  it  to  remain  as  it  is.  Besides — "  He 
broke  off  hurriedly,  as  though  seeking  to  avoid  an 
unpleasant  train  of  thought.  "Beatrice,  the  world 
won't  understand  that  will.  Lois  won't,  and  I  pray, 
for  the  sake  of  her  happiness,  that  she  may  never 
have  to — but  if  the  time  comes  when  this  must 
be  put  into  action,  I  want  you  to  give  her  a  mes- 
sage from  me.  Will  you?" 

"Of  course  I  will.  But" — she  faced  him  with  a 
sudden  inspired  appeal — "must  you  wait  until  you 
are  dead  to  speak  to  her?  Would  it  not  be  better 
to  go  to  her  now  with  your  message  ?  I  do  not  know 
what  has  come  between  you  both,  but  I  know  this 
much — all  forms  of  pretense  are  fatal — " 

He  stopped  her  with  a  gesture  of  decision. 

"No,"  he  said.  "The  secret  must  remain  secret. 
It  has  overshadowed  my  life.  It  has  laden  me  with 
a  burden  of  responsibility  and  shame  which  I  have 
determined  to  share  with  no  one.  I  have  taken  it 
upon  my  shoulders,  and  I  shall  carry  it  to  the  end. 
Tell  Lois  that  I  have  never  once  swerved  in  my 
love  for  her.  Ask  her  to  trust  me  and  think  kindly 


A  FAREWELL  291 

of  me.    It  is  not  I  who  have  sinned  against  her — " 

"Sinned  against  her!  Who  has  sinned  against 
her?  Do  you  mean  me?" 

"No,  not  you.  You  also  have  been  sinned  against. 
I  also."  He  sighed  wearily.  "When  I  look  about 
me,  it  seems  as  though  not  one  of  us  has  not  in  turn 
sinned  and  been  sinned  against.  It  is  an  endless 
chain  of  the  wrong  we  do  one  another." 

She  laughed,  and  for  the  first  time  there  rang  in 
her  voice  a  note  of  the  old  harshness. 

"Look  at  me,  John.  There  is  no  turn  and  turn 
about  with  me.  From  the  beginning  I  have  tricked 
and  lied  and  fought  my  way  through  life.  I  didn't 
care  whom  I  hurt  so  long  as  I  got  through.  I  sinned. 
Who  has  sinned  against  me?" 

"One  person  at  least,"  he  answered  significantly. 

She  caught  her  breath,  and  the  hand  that  passed 
hastily  across  her  forehead  trembled. 

"Even  if  it  were  true  what  you  say,"  she  said,  half 
inaudibly,  "it  does  not  alter  the  fact  that  we  must 
atone  for  what  has  been  done." 

"It  is  the  justice  of  the  world,"  he  assented.  "We 
must  make  good  the  harm  we  do  and  the  .harm  that 
has  been  done  us."  He  threw  back  his  shoulders  with 
a  movement  of  energetic  protest.  "Do  not  let  us  waste 
time  talking.  We  can  not  help  each  other.  All  I  ask 
is — do  not  forget  my  message." 

She  looked  at  him,  strangely  moved. 

"You  talk  as  though  you  were  going  to  die  to-night," 
she  said. 

"I  talk  as  a  man  does  whom  death  has  already 
tapped  on  the  shoulder  more  than  once  of  late,"  he  an- 
swered, with  grim  humor.  "Good-by,  Beatrice." 


292  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"Good-by." 

He  pushed  his  writing-table  to  one  side  so  that  she 
could  pass  out  on  to  the  verandah. 

"Do  not  come  with  me  farther,"  she  said.  "The  car- 
riage is  waiting  outside.  I  would  rather  go  alone." 

He  stood  and  watched  her  as  she  passed  lightly  and 
quickly  among  the  rose-bushes.  It  was  as  though  he 
were  trying  to  engrave  upon  his  mind  the  memory  of  a 
lovely  picture  that  he  was  never  to  see  again, — as 
though  he  were  bidding  her  a  final  farewell.  Twice 
she  turned  and  glanced  back  at  him.  Was  it  with 
the  same  intent,  guided  by  the  same  strange  fore- 
boding? She  disappeared,  and  the  voice  of  a  native' 
orderly  who  had  entered  the  room  unheard  recalled 
him  to  the  reality. 

"A  letter  for  you,  Captain  Sahib,"  the  man  said, 
saluting. 

Stafford  took  the  sealed  envelope  and,  tearing  it 
open,  ran  hastily  over  the  contents.  It  was  from  the 
Colonel.  The  subscription,  as  usual  since  the  rupture 
in  their  relations,  was  cold  and  formal. 

"I  should  be  glad  to  see  you  at  once,"  Colonel  Car- 
michael  had  written.  "Events  occurred  yesterday 
which  I  have  not  as  yet  been  able  to  discuss  with  you, 
but  which  I  fear  are  likely  to  have  the  most  serious 
consequences.  In  the  present  weakened  condition  of 
our  garrison,  we  can  afford  to  run  no  risks.  Nicholson 
is  with  me  here.  Your  presence  would  simplify  mat- 
ters as  regards  forming  our  plans  for  the  future." 

Stafford  turned  to  the  waiting  soldier. 

"Present  my  compliments  to  the  Colonel  Sahib,"  he 
said.  "I  shall  be  with  him  immediately. 


CHAPTER  IV 

STAFFORD   INTERVENES 

THE  threatening  cloud  which  had  loomed  up  on 
the  horizon  had  acted  wonders  on  Colonel  Carmichael's 
constitution.  At  the  last  meeting  of  the  Marut  Dia- 
mond Company  he  had  looked  like  a  man  whose  days 
on  the  active  service  list  were  numbered.  Ill-health, 
disappointment,  and  a  natural  pessimism  had  appar- 
ently left  an  indelible  trace  upon  him,  and  Mrs.  Car- 
michael's prophetic  eye  saw  them  both  established  in 
Cheltenham  or  Bath,  relegated  to  the  Empire's  lumber- 
room — unless  something  happened.  The  something 
had  happened.  The  one  sound  which  had  the  power 
to  rouse  him  had  broken  like  a  clap  of  unheralded 
thunder  upon  his  ears.  It  was  the  call  of  danger,  the 
war-note  which  had  brought  back  to  him  the  spring- 
time of  his  youth  and  strength. 

Stafford  found  him  restlessly  pacing  backward  and 
forward  in  his  narrow  workroom,  deep  in  conversa- 
tion with  Nicholson,  who  stood  at  the  table,  his  head 
bent  over  a  map  of  Marut.  Both  men  were  in  uniform, 
and  it  seemed  to  Stafford  that  Colonel  Carmichael  lis- 
tened to  the  click  of  his  own  spurs  with  the  pleasure 
of  a  young  lieutenant.  It  was  no  longer  the  sound  of 
weary  routine.  It  was  the  herald  of  clashing  sabres 
and  the  champing  of  impatient  horses  awaiting  the 
charge;  it  was  an  echo  of  past  warlike  days  which 

293 


294  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

were  to  come  again.  He  stood  still  as  Stafford  en- 
tered, and  a  flash  of  satisfaction  passed  over  his  face. 

"I'm  glad  you  have  come,"  he  said.  "Whatever  is 
to  be  done  must  be  done  at  once.  I  suppose  you  know 
nothing?" 

"Nothing,"  Stafford  answered.  "Your  note  was  the 
first  intimation  I  have  received  that  there  was  anything 
amiss." 

Colonel  Carmichael  grunted  angrily. 

"Of  course  you  know  nothing,"  he  said,  resuming 
his  restless  march  about  the  room.  "Nor  did  I — nor 
did  any  one.  Heaven  and  earth,  I'm  beginning  to 
think  there's  something  wrong  in  our  theory  that  what- 
ever is  going  on  under  our  noses  must  be  too  insig- 
nificant to  be  noticed !  There,  Nicholson,  hurry  up 
and  tell  him  what  you  know." 

Nicholson  stood  upright,  and  folding  the  map  put 
it  in  his  pocket. 

"I  was  in  the  New  Bazaar  last  night,"  he  began 
curtly.  "I  go  there  regularly,  as  you  know,  disguised 
as  one  thing  or  another,  just  for  the  sake  of  having 
a  look  at  the  people  when  they  don't  know  they  are 
being  watched.  Last  night  there  was  no  one  there — 
not  so  much  as  a  child  or  a  woman.  The  place  was 
dead.  I  admit  that  I  was  not  particularly  startled.  I 
knew  that  there  was  a  great  festival  at  hand.  Pil- 
grims have  been  streaming  in  for  days  past,  and  it 
was  quite  conceivable  that  some  ceremony  was  taking 
place  in  the  temple.  Curiosity  fortunately  led  me  to 
investigate  further.  Myself  disguised  as  a  traveling 
fakir,  I  made  my  way  to  the  Rajah's  palace  gates. 
Already  on  the  road  I  was  joined  by  a  hurrying  stream 
of  men  and  women,  principally  men.  My  suspicions 


STAFFORD  INTERVENES  295 

were  aroused.  I  knew  from  experience  that  it  was  not 
a  usual  crowd  of  pilgrims.  Every  man  was  armed, 
not  only  with  knives,  but  guns  and  revolvers.  Some 
of  them  were  undoubtedly  deserted  sepoys  who  had 
stolen  their  weapons.  Moreover,  they  exchanged  a 
signal  which  I  recognized  and,  in  order  to  escape  de- 
tection, imitated.  It  was  the  signal  which  in  past 
generations  revealed  one  member  of  the  Thug  frater- 
nity to  another." 

"Thugs !"  exclaimed  Stafford,  with  a  faintly  skep- 
tical smile. 

"Do  not  misunderstand  me,"  Nicholson  said.  "I  am 
not  going  to  recall  to  your  minds  the  nursery  horrors 
with  which  our  ayahs  regaled  our  childish  imagin- 
ations. I  will  only  emphasize  one  fact.  The  Thugs 
were  not  and  are  not  merely  a  band  of  murderous  and 
treacherous  robbers.  They  belong  to  the  priesthood, 
they  are  the  deputed  servants  of  the  goddess  Kali,  and 
their  task  is  the  extermination  of  the  enemy — of  the 
foreigner,  that  is  to  say — in  this  case,  of  ourselves." 

Stafford  glanced  at  the  Colonel.  The  latter's  face 
was  set  and  grave. 

"I  do  not  for  a  moment  suggest  that  the  crowd  with 
which  I  traveled  were  Thugs,"  Nicholson  continued. 
"I  know  that  they  were  not.  But  they  had  adopted 
the  Thug  sign  because  they  had  adopted  the  Thug 
mission.  Not,  however,  till  we  had  passed  the  gates 
and  reached  the  palace  did  I  realize  the  gravity  of  the 
situation.  The  Rajah  stood  on  the  great  steps,  sur- 
rounded by  a  body-guard  of  torch-bearers.  He  was 
dressed  in  full  native  costume,  a  blaze  of  gems,  and 
wearing  the  royal  insignia.  The  expression  on  his  face 
was  something  I  shall  not  easily  forget,  and  at  the 


296  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

time  it  was  inexplicable  to  me.  I  can  not  describe  it. 
I  can  only  say  that  I  was  instantly  reminded  of  Mil- 
ton's fallen  Satan  as  he  stands  above  his  followers, 
superb,  dauntless,  but  tortured  by  hatred,  contempt 
and  God  knows  what  strange  minglings  of  remorse 
and  anger.  He  greeted  the  crowd  with  the  sign  of 
death.  His  first  words  revealed  to  me  that  his  alle- 
giance to  us  was  at  an  end,  and  that  he  meant  to  fol- 
low in  his  father's  bloody  footsteps." 

Stafford  stretched  out  his  hand,  catching  hold  of 
the  back  of  a  chair  as  if  seeking  support. 

"Go  on !"  he  said  sharply. 

"I  have  very  little  more  to  say.  I  did  not  wait,  for 
I  had  heard  enough  to  know  that  Marut  was  in  instant 
danger.  I  made  my  escape  as  best  I  could,  but  in  order 
to  avoid  notice  I  had  to  resort  to  circuitous  paths,  and 
only  reached  here  this  morning." 

Colonel  Carmichael  brought  his  hand  down  an- 
grily upon  the  table. 

"To  think  that  the  scoundrel  should  have  been  pre- 
tending friendship  all  the  time  that  he  was  preparing 
to  murder  us !"  he  exclaimed.  "This  comes  of  trust- 
ing a  native !" 

"Excuse  me,  Colonel,"  Nicholson  answered,  with 
emphasis.  "I  have  every  reason  to  believe  that  until 
yesterday  Nehal  Singh  was  our  sincere  ally." 

"You  mean  to  say  that  he  stamped  an  armed  crowd 
out  of  the  earth  in  half  an  hour  ?" 

"No.  That  armed  crowd  was  the  silent  work  of 
years.  It  was  the  tool  which  has  been  held  ready  for 
a  long  time — but  not  by  Nehal  Singh — " 

"By  whom,  then,  in  the  name  of  all — " 


STAFFORD  INTERVENES  297 

Nicholson  drew  out  an  old  and  faded  photograph 
and  handed  it  to  the  Colonel. 

"Do  you  recognize  that  face?"  he  asked. 

"Certainly  I  do.  It  is  the  Rajah's  father — Behar 
Singh.  How  did  you  come  by  this  ?" 

"It  belonged  to  my  father.  He  gave  it  me,  and  I 
kept  it  as  a  curiosity.  Colonel,  I  saw  that  man  last 
night  at  the  Rajah's  side." 

The  photograph  fluttered  from  the  Colonel's  power- 
less fingers.  He  looked  at  Nicholson,  and  there  flashed 
into  his  old  eyes  a  terrible  primitive  passion  of  re- 
venge and  hatred. 

"My  God !  He  is  alive — and  I  never  knew !" 

"He  is  alive,  Colonel.  And  I  believe  that,  hidden 
from  us  all,  he  has  been  working  steadily  and  stealth- 
ily at  the  task  which  saw  its  completion  last  night. 
So  long  as  Nehal  Singh  stood  on  our  side  he  could 
do  nothing.  The  people  believe  Nehal  to  be  an  in- 
carnation of  Vishnu,  and  they  will  only  follow  where 
he  leads.  Behar  knew  that — probably  he  himself  had 
fostered  the  idea.  He  guessed,  probably,  that  one  day 
Nehal  Singh  would  turn  from  us.  He  waited.  Last 
night  I  saw  a  face  of  devilish  triumph  which  told  its 
own  tale.  He  had  not  waited  in  vain." 

Colonel  Carmichael  turned  to  Stafford  and  held 
out  his  hand.  For  the  first  time  old  friendship  shone 
out  of  his  eyes  mingled  with  a  fire  of  thirsty  revenge. 

"You  and  I  have  a  debt  to  pay  before  we  die,  Staf- 
ford," he  said. 

Stafford's  hand  touched  his  coldly  and  powerlessly. 

"I  have  nothing  against  the  Rajah,"  he  said  hoarse- 
ly. "I  can  not  carry  out  a  revenge  against  the  son — " 


298  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

Colonel  Carmichael  interrupted  him  with  a  hard 
laugh. 

"They  are  all  of  a  piece,"  he  said.  "Say  what  you 
will,  Nicholson,  Nehal  Singh  is  a  traitor.  We  were 
fools  to  trust  him.  We  are  always  fools  when  we  do 
not  treat  a  native  as  a  dangerous  animal.  They  mur- 
der us  for  our  silly,  sentimental  confidence." 

Nicholson  bent  down  and,  picking  up  the  photo- 
graph, replaced  it  in  his  pocket. 

"Do  you  think  so,  Colonel?"  he  said  significantly. 
"Fromi  my  experience  I  have  learned  that  you  can  al- 
ways trust  a  native.  You  can  treat  him  as  your  friend 
and  equal  so  long  as  the  inequality  is  there  and  obvious 
to  him.  I  mean,  so  long  as  in  everything — in  generos- 
ity, in  courage,  and  in  honor — he  realizes  that  you  are 
his  superior." 

Colonel  Carmichael's  face  darkened  with  anger. 

"Do  you  mean,  perhaps,  that — that  we  are  not  all 
that?"  he  demanded. 

"Surely  not  all  of  us.  How  many  men  think  that 
any  sort  of  conduct  is  good  enough  to  show  a  native? 
What  did  Behar  Singh  see  of  our  honor?  He  was 
our  friend  until  an  Englishman  who  had  eaten  and 
drunk  his  hospitality  repaid  him  by  a  dishonorable 
theft.  What  has  Nehal  Singh  seen  of  our  superiority  ? 
In  spite  of  his  father's  influence,  he  came  to  us  preju- 
diced in  our  favor.  He  saw  heroes  in  us  all,  and  he 
trusted  himself  blindly  in  our  hands.  What  has  been 
the  consequence?  Look  at  yesterday's  scene,  as  you 
have  described  it  to  me,  Colonel.  His  best  friend  had 
proved  himself  a  mean  and  treacherous  swindler.  The 
woman  whom  as  I  judge  he  regarded  as  a  saint — for- 
give me,  Stafford,  I  must  be  honest — no  more  than  a 


STAFFORD  INTERVENES  299 

heartless  flirt,  who  had  led  him  on  from  one  folly  to  an- 
other for  the  sake  of  a  little  excitement — " 

"Rubbish!"  Colonel  Carmichael  burst  out.  "What 
are  exceptions  in  a  whole  race?" 

"In  a  strange  country  no  one  is  an  exception,  Col- 
onel. One  coward,  one  thief,  one  drunkard  is  quite 
enough  to  cast  the  blackest  slur  upon  the  whole  nation 
in  the  eyes  of  another  race.  As  sincerely  as  he  be- 
lieved yesterday  that  we  were  all  heroes,  as  sincerely 
Nehal  Singh  believes  to-day  that  there  isn't  an  honest 
man  among  us." 

This  time  Colonel  Carmichael  made  no  answer.  He 
went  over  to  the  window  and  stood  there  frowning 
obstinately  out  over  the  neglected  garden.  His  eyes 
fell  on  the  ruined  bungalow,  and  he  called  Nicholson 
to  his  side. 

"Look  at  ythat!"  he  said.  "In  that  place  Behar 
Singh  murdered  my  best  and  only  friend,  Steven  Ca- 
ruthers.  I  have  not  forgotten  and  I  can  not  forget.  It 
has  branded  every  native  for  me  as  a  murderer.  No 
doubt  this  proves  your  argument.  From  the  first  I 
shrank  from  all  contact  with  the  present  Rajah.  I  dis- 
trusted him,  and  it  is  obvious  now  that  my  distrust 
was  well  founded.  What  do  you  say,  Stafford  ?  You, 
too,  were  against  having  anything  to  do  with  him." 

To  his  surprise  and  annoyance,  Stafford  did  not 
respond.  He  stood  there  with  his  hands  clasping  the 
back  of  the  chair,  his  brows  knitted  in  painful  thought. 

"Come,  Stafford,  what  have  you  to  say?"  the  Col- 
onel repeated  impatiently. 

"I  think  there  is  a  good  deal  in  what  Nicholson 
says,"  Stafford  answered,  speaking  as  though  he  had 
only  just  heard  that  he  was  being  addressed.  "The 


300  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

Rajah  has  not  been  well  treated.  He  has  a  right  to 
feel  bitter.  And  he  seemed  a  fine  sort  of  man.  With- 
out prejudice,  Colonel,  one  can  not  withhold  a  certain 
admiration  for  him.  He  has  behaved  better  than 
some  of  us." 

Colonel  Carmichael  frowned,  but  his  sense  of  jus- 
tice forced  him  to  a  reluctant  admission. 

"Yes,  he  has  a  few  showy  virtues.  Yesterday,  for 
instance.  Under  the  circumstances,  he  behaved  like 
a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  honor.  Before  nightfall  the 
English  share-holders  in  the  mine  got  their  money 
back  in  gems  and  rupees — he  must  have  pulled  the 
palace  to  pieces.  In  fact,  everything  might  have  gone 
off  smoothly  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that — that — "  He 
coughed  and  glanced  at  Stafford,  not  without  a  touch 
of  malicious  satisfaction. 

"You  are  alluding  to  Miss  Cary,  Colonel,"  Stafford 
said,  returning  his  glance  with  dignity,  "and  you  are 
at  liberty  to  say  what  you  like,  for  I  have  no  longer 
the  right  to  champion  her.  At  her  request,  our  en- 
gagement is  at  an  end.  But  as  her  friend  I  can  not  re- 
frain from  saying  this  much — she  has  not  spared  her- 
self, and,  God  knows,  she  also  has  not  been  treated 
well." 

What  memories  passed  before  the  Colonel's  mind 
as  he  stood  there  gazing  absently  in  front  of  him! 
Recollections  of  mean  and  envious  criticisms,  ugly 
underhand  slanders,  petty  intrigue,  his  own  shame- 
faced patronage !  And  then  the  vision  of  a  lovely, 
white-faced  woman  making  her  desperate  self-accusal, 
and  of  a  terrible,  vulgar  mother  trying  to  hold  her 
back  with  threats  and  pleadings !  He  turned  at  last  to 
the  two  men,  his  own  face  red  and  troubled. 


STAFFORD  INTERVENES  301 

"I  apologize,"  he  said.  "I  apologize  all  around.  I 
seem  to  have  been  insulting  everybody  in  turn.  I  dare 
say  you  are  all  right.  The  Rajah  may  be  ill-used  and 
Miss  Gary  well-meaning.  I  don't  know.  And  what 
on  earth  does  it  matter?  The  fat  is  in  the  fire,  and 
here  we  stand  chattering  like  old  women  about  how 
it  got  there.  Something  must  be  done.  The  reg- 
iment is  a  day's  march  from  here,  and  with  a  com- 
pany of  your  Gurkhas,  Nicholson,  we  shan't  do  much 
— scarcely  hold  out  if  they  dare  attack  us." 

"They  will  dare,"  Nicholson  answered.  "So  much  I 
know  for  certain,  and  it  will  probably  be  to-night.  I 
can  vouch  for  my  men,  and  we  must  do  our  best  until 
help  comes.  But — "  He  paused  rather  significantly. 

"But  what,  man?  Don't  you  think  it  will  come  in 
time?  I  have  already  telegraphed.  They  will  be  here 
in  twenty-four  hours.  Surely  we  can  manage  (so 
long." 

"Colonel,  if  you  had  seen  what  I  saw  last  night, 
you  would  not  count  much  on  help.  It  isn't  the  rising 
of  a  few  unarmed  men.  It  is  the  revolt  of  a  fanatic, 
warlike  nation  led  by  a  man.  They  call  him  God.  His 
godhead  does  not  matter  to  us.  As  a  god  we  have 
no  need  to  fear  him ;  but  as  a  man  and  a  born  leader 
of  men,  with  hatred  and  revenge  as  an  incentive, 
armed  with  unlimited  power,  he  is  an  enemy  not  to 
be  held  at  bay  by  a  handful  of  Gurkhas  and  not  to  be 
conquered  by  a  regiment." 

His  words  had  their  quiet,  fatal  significance.  Col- 
onel Carmichael  and  Stafford  looked  at  each  other. 
Hitherto  they  had  faced  the  situation  coolly  enough, 
with  their  eternal  national  optimism  and  self-confi- 
dence. This  man  had  wrenched  down  the  veil,  and 


302  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

they  stood  before  a  chasm  to  which  there  seemed  no 
shore,  no  bottom.  It  was  the  end,  and  they  knew  it. 

"You  mean,  then,  that  it  is  all  over?"  the  Colonel 
said  casually.  "You  know  more  than  either  of  us. 
You  ought  to  be  able  to  tell." 

"Yes,  Colonel,  I  should  judge  that  it  was  all  over, 
unless  a  miracle  happens." 

"We  might  fight  our  way  through." 

"On  my  way  early  this  morning  the  roads  were 
already  guarded.  They  did  not  recognize  me,  other- 
wise I  should  not  be  here." 

"And  the  women?" 

All  three  men  had  grown  cool  and  indifferent. 
Death  had  stepped  in,  and  from  that  moment  it  was 
not  seemly  to  show  either  trouble  or  excitement. 

"According  to  my  idea,  the  women  had  better  be 
lodged  here  in  your  bungalow,"  Nicholson  said.  "The 
surrounding  walls  make  it  a  good  place  of  defense.  The 
barracks  are  too  open." 

The  Colonel  nodded.  Quite  unconsciously  he  was 
letting  the  reins  of  command  slip  into  the  younger 
and  stronger  hands. 

"They  must  be  brought  over  at  once,"  he  assented. 
"Thank  Heaven  most  of  them  have  gone  to  the  hills. 
Mrs.  Berry  and  that — that  other  woman  had  better 
not  be  told  what's  up.  They  will  only  make  a  fuss. 
My  wife  will  understand — and  Lois  will  be  all  right. 
We  must  get  hold  of  Travers,  if  it  is  only  for  her 
sake.  It  would  serve  him  right  if  we  left  him  to  his 
fate." 

Stafford  took  a  step  forward. 

"I  have  a  suggestion  to  make,  Colonel,"  he  said. 

Colonel    Carmichael    looked   at    him.      Throughout 


STAFFORD  INTERVENES  303 

the  interview  Stafford  had  acted  and  spoken  like  a 
man  who  is  weighed  down  by  a  burden  of  terrible 
doubt  and  perplexity.  He  alone  of  the  three  men  had 
shown  the  first  sign  of  emotion,  and  emotion  in  the 
face  of  death  was  for  the  Colonel  no  better  than  fear. 
His  face  hardened. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "what  is  it?" 

"Rajah  Nehal  Singh  is  not  a  barbarian,"  Stafford 
began.  "I  believe  he  would  listen  to  reason  if  one 
of  us  could  get  hold  of  him.  He  seems  to  have  his 
country's  welfare  at  heart,  and  if  it  was  explained  to 
what  horrible  bloodshed  he  was  leading  it — " 

"There  must  be  no  cringing!"  Colonel  Carmichael 
interrupted  sharply. 

"It  will  not  be  a  case  of  cringing.  We  could  sim- 
ply put  the  matter  before  him." 

"There  is  something  in  what  Stafford  says,"  Nich- 
olson agreed.  "From  what  I  know  of  the  Rajah,  he 
seems  both  reasonable  and  humane.  He  may  have 
yielded  to  his  father's  importunities  in  a  fit  of  anger, 
and  is  perhaps  already  wishing  himself  well  out  of 
the  mess.  For  the  women's  sake,  Colonel,  we  ought 
to  have  a  shot — and  not  all  for  the  women's  sake, 
either.  Heaven  knows  what  this  business  will  cost 
England  if  it  comes  to  a  head !" 

Colonel  Carmichael  bit  his  lip  impatiently.  He  did 
not  recognize  his  own  motives  of  desiring  a  last  hand- 
to-hand  struggle.  They  were  those  of  an  old  man  who 
sees  Cheltenham  and  stagnation  looming  in  the  dis- 
tance and  prays  for  death.  But  his  common  sense  con- 
quered the  selfish  promptings. 

"Who  would  be  likely  to  undertake  the  mission  with 
any  hope  of  success?"  he  asked. 


304  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"Nehal  Singh  and  I  were,  toward  the  end,  rather 
more  than  friendly,"  Nicholson  began.  "I  believe  he 
entertained  a  real  liking  for  me — " 

"If  any  one  goes,  I  must!"  The  interruption  came 
from  Stafford.  His  head  was  raised.  He  faced  the 
two  men  with  a  stern  determination.  "No,  Nich- 
olson ;  I  know  all  you  want  to  say.  I  have  no  sort  of 
sympathy  with  the  natives — I  haven't  your  power  over 
them.  But  this  is  different.  I  have  a  power.  I  may 
have.  Let  me  go.  If  I  fail,  then  you  can  try." 

"By  the  time  you  have  failed  it  will  be  too  late," 
Nicholson  returned.  He  was  watching  Stafford  with 
almost  pitying  curiosity.  His  keen  instinct  penetrated 
the  man's  strained  and  nervous  bearing  to  some  con- 
flict which  seemed  to  have  had  its  birth  with  the  first 
mention  of  Nehal  Singh's  name. 

"It  will  not  be  too  late,"  Stafford  answered  per- 
sistently. "I  ask  for  an  hour,  Colonel.  In  an  hour 
I  shall  know — whether — whether  I  have  the  power." 

"Captain  Stafford,  are  you  mad!"  the  Colonel  said 
sternly.  "This  is  not  a  time  for  experiments." 

"I  ask  for  an  hour,"  Stafford  repeated,  and  there  was 
an  emphasis  and  earnestness  in  his  voice  which  cut 
short  Colonel  Carmichael's  angry  sarcasm.  "At  the 
end  of  that  time  Nicholson  can  do  what  he  likes.  I 
am  not  mad.  I  beg  of  you  to  ask  no  questions.  I  can 
not  answer  them.  I  can  only  tell  you  that  I  have  a 
great  responsibility — toward  you  all  and  toward  an- 
other." 

Colonel  Carmichael  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Staf- 
ford's manner  awed  arid  troubled  him  in  spite  of  him- 
self. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  at  last.    "I  give  you  an  hour. 


STAFFORD  INTERVENES  305 

During  that  time  we  will  make  preparations  for  the 
worst."  He  took  out  his  watch.  "It  is  now  eleven.  At 
twelve  the  matter  passes  into  Nicholson's  hands." 

Stafford  saluted. 

"I  understand,  Colonel." 

Nicholson  accompanied  him  toward  the  door. 

"God-speed !"  he  said  simply.  Stafford  hesitated,  his 
heavy  eyes  resting  on  the  fine  face  of  his  brother- 
officer  with  an  almost  passionate  gratitude. 

"Thank  you,  Nicholson,  thank  you.  God  help  me 
to  do  what  is  right !" 

He  turned  and  hurried  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  V 

MURDER, 

ARCHIBALD  TRAVERS  stood  in  his  favorite  at- 
titude by  the  window,  his  shoulder  propped  against 
the  casement,  his  arms  folded,  a  smile  of  good-na- 
tured amusement  on  his  healthy  face. 

"My  dear  child,"  he  protested,  "what  earthly  inter- 
est can  it  have  for  you  to  know  the  pros  and  cons  of 
the  business?  You  wouldn't  understand,  and  that 
small  head  would  ache  for  a  week  afterward.  Be 
content  with  the  outline  of  the  thing.  Of  course  it 
has  all  been  frightfully  unfortunate.  But  the  Rajah 
wasn't  to  be  held  back.  He  believed  the  mine  was  go- 
ing to  be  the  making  of  Marut — and  for  a  matter  of 
fact  so  did  I  at  first,  otherwise  I  shouldn't  have  put  all 
my  money  in  it.  The  fellow  had  an  enthusiasm  and 
confidence  which  fairly  carried  us  off  our  feet.  Well, 
it's  done,  and  it's  no  use  crying  about  it.  The  best 
thing  we  can  do  is  to  clear  out  of  Marut  as  fast  as  we 
can.  People  are  bound  to  be  disagreeable  about  it." 

"The  Carys  are  ruined  too?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — they  have  lost  a  bit,  I  suppose." 
His  voice  sounded  unpleasant.  "At  any  rate,  I'll  say 
that  for  them — they  behaved  as  people  of  their  ex- 
traction would  behave.  First  the  mother  poured  out 
a  torrent  of  abuse  over  the  poor  Rajah  which  would 
have  been  the  envy  of  a  fish- wife,  and  then  the  daugh- 

306 


MURDER  307 

ter  turned  on  me."  He  laughed.  "It  was  a  most 
powerful  scene  of  feminine  hysterics.  I  was  glad  that 
you  were  not  there." 

Lois  sat  silent,  her  head  resting  on  her  hand,  her 
eyes  fixed  thoughtfully  on  the  table. 

"And  what  are  we  going  to  do?"  she  asked  at  last. 
"You  take  the  matter  so  easily,  but  if  we  are  really 
ruined — " 

He  laid  his  hand  affectionately  on  her  shoulder. 

"I  am  ruined,  Lois.  I  did  not  say  that  you  were. 
Even  with  your  rather  low  opinion  of  me,  you  could 
hardly  have  supposed  that  I  would  touch  your  money. 
You  are  well  enough  off  to  do  what  you  like.  As  for 
me — "  he  squared  his  shoulders — "I  feel  quite  capable 
of  starting  things  all  over  again." 

His  tone  touched  her.  She  looked  up,  and  her  face 
softened.  There  was  nothing  that  could  have  made 
her  happier  than  to  have  discovered  in  her  husband 
some  elements  of  courage  and  sincerity. 

"Of  course,  Archibald,  whatever  is  mine  is  yours," 
she  said.  "You  must  have  known  that." 

"My  dear  generous  little  woman!"  He  bent  over 
her  and  kissed  her,  apparently  unconscious  that  she 
instinctively  drew  back  from  his  caress.  "If  you  really 
will  help  me,  no  doubt  I  shall  build  things  up  again 
in  no  time,  and  this  one  blunder  won't  count  for  much. 
You  are  a  worthy  comrade  for  a  man." 

Perhaps  he  had  accepted  her  offer  too  quickly,  per- 
haps his  tone  jarred  on  her  as  too  elated,  too  sat- 
isfied. She  got  up,  pushing  her  letters  quickly  to  one 
side. 

"You  really  wish  us  to  start  for  Madras  to-night?" 

"Yes,  if  you  can  manage  it.     It  is  important  that 


308  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

I  should  get  back  as  soon  as  possible,  and  the  business 
here  is  finished." 

"Very  well.  I  will  pack  up  as  much  as  I  can.  The 
rest  must  be  sent  on  afterward." 

He  let  her  reach  the  door  before  he  stopped  her 
again. 

"By  the  way,  Lois,  there  is  one  thing  I  must  ask 
you.  I  do  not  wish  you  to  have  any  further  inter- 
course with  that  Beatrice  Gary.  She  is  not  a  person 
with  whom  I  should  wish  my  wife  to  associate.  You 
were  right  about  her — she  is  a  bad,  unscrupulous 
woman." 

With  her  hand  on  the  curtain  she  turned  and  looked 
back  at  him.  A  cloud  of  curious  distrust  passed  over 
her  pale  face. 

"I  never  said  that  she  was  bad  or  unscrupulous.  I 
do  not  believe  that  she  is.  You  say  that  now,  but  it 
was  not  your  old  opinion." 

"I  suppose  it  is  possible  to  see  people  in  different 
and  less  agreeable  lights  ?"  he  retorted  sharply. 

"Only  too  possible.  But  as  she  was  never  a  friend 
of  mine,  and  we  are  leaving  within  the  next  few  hours, 
the  injunction  to  avoid  her  is  unnecessary."  She 
paused  as  though  listening.  "I  hear  some  one  talking 
to  the  syce,"  she  went  on  hurriedly.  "It  sounds  like 
Captain  Stafford's  voice.  Archibald" — she  turned  and 
came  quickly  to  his  side — "please  let  me  out  of  the 
verandah.  I  don't  want  to  meet  him." 

He  caught  her  by  the  wrist  and  pushed  her  back. 
The  movement  was  brutal,  unlike  his  usual  gentle- 
ness, and  she  saw  by  the  expression  of  his  face  that  for 
the  moment  he  had  lost  all  consciousness  of  what  he 
was  doing. 


MURDER  309 

"I  don't  want  to  see  him  either.  Go  and  tell  him 
that  I  am  not  at  home — that  I  have  started  for  Madras 
— quick!  Don't  stand  there  staring." 

His  extraordinary  excitement,  apparently  unreason- 
able and  entirely  opposed  to  his  calm,  easy-going  hab- 
its, had  the  effect  of  setting  fire  to  her  dormant  sus- 
picion. She  wrenched  herself  free. 

"I  am  not  going  to  tell  him  a  lie,"  she  said  firmly. 

"Lois,  you  are  a  little  fool !  Do  as  I  tell  you.  It 
isn't  a  lie — only  a  piece  of  conventional  humbug  which 
everybody  understands.  There,  please !"  His  tone  of 
entreaty  was  more  disagreeable  to  her  than  his  rough- 
ness. All  the  pride  and  rigidity  of  her  Puritan  tem- 
perament was  up  in  arms  against  the  indefinable  some- 
thing which  it  had  long  ago  recognized  and  despised. 

"It  is  not  conventional  humbug,"  she  retorted — 
"not  in  this  case.  You  are  lying  because  you  are 
afraid,  because  you  have  a  reason  for  not  seeing 
Captain  Stafford  which  you  won't  tell  me." 

He  had  not  time  to  answer.  The  curtains  were 
pushed  on  one  side,  and  Stafford  entered  hurriedly.  He 
was  covered  with  dust  and  looked  haggard  and  ex- 
hausted. He  did  not  seem  to  see  Lois,  though  she 
stood  immediately  in  front  of  him.  His  eyes  passed 
over  her  head  to  Travers. 

"I  am  sorry  to  come  in  unannounced,"  he  said, 
without  giving  either  an  opportunity  to  speak,  "but 
your  servant  was  making  difficulties,  and  I  have  not  a 
minute  to  lose.  I  have  galloped  every  inch  of  the 
way  here  from  the  Colonel's  bungalow.  I  must  speak 
to  you  at  once,  Travers,  alone." 

Lois  went  toward  the  door.  As  she  passed  him  she 
saw  him  look  at  her  for  the  first  time.  And  she  went 


310  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

her  way  blinded  with  tears  that  had  no  cause  save  in 
the  stern,  unhappy  face  which  had  flashed  its  message 
to  her.  For  she  knew  that  his  glance  had  been  a  mes- 
sage ;  that  he  had  tried  to  explain,  and  that  she  had  not 
understood.  The  curtain  fell  behind  her,  and  Stafford 
crossed  the  room  to  Travers'  side. 

"You  have  heard  what  has  happened  ?"  he  demanded. 

Travers  had  resumed  his  old  attitude  of  indiffer- 
ence. Only  his  eyes  betrayed  the  uneasiness  which  he 
was  really  feeling. 

"Do  you  mean  the  Rajah?  No,  I  haven't  heard 
anything,  but  if  he  is  making  himself  a  nuisance,  I 
am  not  surprised.  I  expected  it." 

"Don't  talk  like  that!"  Stafford  exclaimed,  bring- 
ing his  clenched  hand  down  on  the  table.  "How  dare 
you !  Have  you  no  sense  of  responsibility  ?  For  you 
it  was  no  more  than  a  doubtful  speculation,  and  you 
took  care  that  there  were  no  risks ;  but  for  Marut  it 
means — Heaven  knows  what  it  means !" 

"Nothing!"  returned  Travers  coolly.  "Nothing  to 
get  heated  about.  The  Rajah  feels  sore,  no  doubt,  but 
that  will  pass.  And  that  is  not  my  fault.  It  would 
have  been  all  right  if  Miss  Gary  had  not — well,  made 
such  a  fool  of  herself,  and  incidentally  of  us  all." 

Stafford  gazed  steadily  at  the  man  who  smiled  at 
him.  He  could  not  understand  a  character  so  absolute- 
ly without  all  moral  foundations. 

"You  are  no  doubt  preparing  to  start  for  Madras?" 
he  asked,  controlling  his  voice  with  a  strong  effort. 

"Certainly.    There  is  nothing  more  to  be  done  here." 

"Let  me  tell  you  that  you  are  not  likely  to  leave 
Marut  alive." 

Travers  laughed. 


"Nonsense,  my  dear  Captain!  I  am  not  to  be 
frightened  with  nursery  tales." 

"It  is  not  a  nursery  tale.  I  give  you  my  word  of 
honor  that  before  nightfall  we  shall  be  overwhelmed 
by  a  force  a  hundred  times  larger  than  anything  we  can 
bring  on  the  field  for  weeks  to  come." 

Travers  shifted  his  position  carelessly.  Stafford 
had  not  succeeded  in  frightening  him.  He  did  not  be- 
lieve in  native  rebellions.  What  he  had  seen  of  the 
Hindu  character  convinced  him  of  its  fundamental 
cowardice  and  incapability  for  independent  action. 

"A  few  blank  cartridges  will  bring  the  Rajah  very 
quickly  to  his  senses,"  he  assured  Stafford,  with  per- 
fect good-humor.  "We  have  nothing  to  be  afraid  of 
in  that  quarter." 

"You  really  think  that?"  Stafford  demanded  sig- 
nificantly. "Knowing  what  you  know,  you  think  we 
have  no  cause  to  fear  him  ?" 

Travers  changed  color.  The  uneasy  flicker  in  his 
eyes  returned. 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean?" 

"You  know  very  well.  You  know  whom  we  shall 
be  fighting  against." 

"Of  course — a  headlong,  inexperienced  Hindu 
prince — " 

"You  are  choosing  to  have  a  very  short  memory. 
Nehal  Singh  is  more  than  that." 

Travers  stood  upright.  The  healthy  glow  had  died 
out  of  his  cheeks. 

"Look  here,  Stafford,"  he  said  roughly,  "what  is  it 
you  want  ?  I  can  see  you  want  something." 

"Yes.  Give  me  back  my  promise.  I  can  not  keep  it 
any  longer." 


312.  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"Do  you  think  I  extort  promises  that  I  don't  want 
kept?  Are  you  in  earnest?" 

"Yes,  terribly  in  earnest.  Look  the  thing  in  the 
face,  Travers.  Our  lives,  and,  what  is  far  more,  the 
lives  of  our  women  and  Heaven  knows  how  many  of 
our  countrymen,  hang  in  the  balance.  If  you  don't 
believe  me,  ask  Nicholson." 

"I  shall  believe  what  I  like!"  Travers  began  to 
pace  backward  and  forward,  his  mind  busy  with 
lightning  calculations.  Before  nightfall  they  would 
be  out  of  Marut.  Stafford  was  exaggerating  the  dan- 
ger, perhaps  for  his  own  purposes.  The  whole  thing 
was  nonsense. 

"I  keep  you  to  your  promise,"  he  said  obstinately. 

Stafford  lifted  his  head.  The  man's  natural  reserve 
and  conventionalism  were  borne  down  by  the  sense  of 
his  helplessness.  He  was  fighting  against  a  giant  of 
egoism,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  of  gross  and  criminal  stu- 
pidity, for  the  lives  of  untold  hundreds. 

"You  can  not  realize  what  you  are  doing,"  he  said. 
"It  is  our  one  hope  of  holding  the  Rajah's  hand,  and 
with  every  moment  the  danger  is  increasing.  As  I 
came  along  the  road  I  passed  crowds  of  natives  on  the 
way  to  the  palace.  Most  of  them  were  men  from  your 
mine,  Travers,  and  they  had  an  ugly  look.  They  did 
not  touch  me,  it  is  true,  but  I  believe  they  are  only 
waiting  for  Nehal  Singh's  order,  and  then  it  will  be 
too  late.  Travers,  we  must  do  everything  in  our  power 
to  prevent  him  giving  that  order.  I  have  promised 
Colonel  Carmichael  to  do  what  I  could.  At  twelve  I 
must  be  back,  or — " 

Travers  swung  around.     His  face  was  livid. 

"You  told  him—?" 


MURDER  313 

"No,  but  I  must.  I  can  not  keep  my  promise.  You 
must  set  me  free.  I  gave  it  you  because  you  told  me 
that  I  was  not  concerned.  Now  I  am  concerned,  I  dare 
not  keep  silence." 

"My  dear  fellow,  you  must — that  is,  if  you  are  a 
man  of  honor." 

"Of  what  use  is  the  secret  to  you  ?" 

"That  is  my  affair.  There  was  a  time  when  you 
were  anxious  enough  to  keep  it." 

"It  was  for  Lois'  sake.  The  two  things  were  bound 
up  together.  She  can  not  be  spared  any  longer." 

"You  think  not?  I  am  of  another  opinion.  I  put 
my  wife's  peace  of  mind  higher  than  your  old-maidish 
alarms."  Travers  faced  his  companion  with  the  assur- 
ance of  a  man  who  feels  that  he  has  the  whip-hand. 
His  experience  taught  him  that  a  man  of  certain  ortho- 
dox principles  has  a  very  limited  sphere  of  action. 
He  runs  in  herds  with  hundreds  of  other  men  of  the 
same  mould,  and  under  given  circumstances  has  only 
one  course  of  conduct  open  to  him.  Had  Travers  been 
in  Stafford's  place,  no  one  living  could  have  told  what 
he  would  do.  But  Stafford  had  no  choice — at  least, 
so  Travers  judged. 

"You  are  one  of  honor's  Pharisees,  my  dear  fellow," 
he  said  frankly.  "You  can't  get  out  of  your  promise, 
and  you  know  it.  You  cling  to  the  letter  of  the  law.  It 
is  your  way.  You  had  better  go  back  to  the  Colonel 
and  tell  him  to  manage  the  Rajah  in  his  own  style." 

The  clock  on  the  table  chimed  the  half-hour.  It  was 
ten  minutes'  full  gallop  back  to  the  Colonel's  bungalow. 
Stafford  set  his  teeth  in  a  white  heat  of  despair. 

"If  you  have  no  consideration  for  the  Station,  for 
your  own  wife,  for  your  own  country,  at  least  consider 


314  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

yourself !"  he  exclaimed.  "Are  you  blind  to  the  dan- 
ger? We  have  scarcely  fifty  men,  and  up  there  are 
thousands  quietly  waiting  for  the  Rajah's  signal.  You 
must  have  seen  them  with  your  own  eyes  pouring 
through—" 

"I  saw  any  amount  of  dirty  pilgrims,  and  got  out 
of  the  way  as  fast  as  I  could,"  was  Travers'  smiling 
retort. 

Stafford  stood  baffled  and  helpless.  For  the  first 
time  he  was  able  to  recognize  and  appreciate  a  certain 
type  of  Englishman  to  which  he  himself  to  some  ex- 
tent belonged — an  arrogant  ignoramus  who,  en- 
camped behind  his  wall  of  superiority,  fears  nothing 
because  he  sees  nothing,  and  sees  nothing  because  out- 
side the  walls  there  can  not  possibly  be  anything  worth 
looking  at.  Nicholson  had  torn  down  Stafford's  imag- 
ined security,  and  he  stood  aghast  at  his  old  insolent 
self-confidence  as  reflected  in  Travers'  smiling  face. 

"To  be  quite  honest  with  you,"  the  latter  went  on, 
after  a  moment's  pause,  "I  have  very  little  faith  in  our 
dreadful  danger.  Admitted  that  I  led  the  Rajah  on  a 
more  than  doubtful  speculation,  admitted  that  Miss 
Gary  went  further  than  she  need  have  done,  it  is  still 
most  unlikely  that  his  injured  feelings  are  going  to 
lead  him  to  such  a  desperate  step  as  to  enter  into  con- 
flict with  the  whole  Empire.  Believe  me,  Stafford,  the 
idea  is  ridiculous,  and  I  have  not  the  least  intention 
of  throwing  up  my  own  hard-won  security — " 

It  was  a  bad  slip,  and  he  knew  it.  Stafford,  who 
had  stood  with  his  face  half  averted,  in  an  attitude  of 
irresolution,  swung  round. 

"Your  security  ?"  he  echoed. 

Travers  shrugged  his  shoulders.     He  had  made  a 


MURDER  315 

mistake,  but  he  saw  no  reason  to  be  afraid  of  Stafford 
or  of  any  one  in  Marut. 

"I  said  'my  security/  "  he  repeated. 

Stafford  clenched  his  fists.  The  expression  on  his 
gaunt,  rugged  face  showed  that  he  had  understood 
the  full  import  of  Travers'  words. 

"You  blackguard !"  he  said  under  his  breath. 

Travers  turned  scarlet. 

"Mind  yourself,  Captain  Stafford.  You  may  find 
yourself  outside  the  door  quicker  than  you  care  for 
it!" 

"You  blackguard!"  Stafford  repeated  furiously. 
"I  haven't  a  better  name  for  you.  You  have  simply 
humbugged  me  with  your  lies  about  Lois  and  your 
devotion  to  her — " 

Travers  strode  at  him. 

"How  dare  you !" 

"Don't  bluster,  Travers !  It  can't  hide  what  I  see. 
You  married  Lois  for  her  money — " 

"Hold  your  infernal  tongue !" 

"And  now  you  are  afraid.  Well,  you  shall  have 
some  cause."  He  picked  up  his  helmet,  which  lay  on 
the  table.  "I  gave  you  my  promise  because  you  as- 
sured me  it  was  for  Lois'  happiness,  and  I  believed 
you.  According  to  my  ideas,  both  of  them  were  better 
left  in  ignorance.  I  did  not  know  that  you  had  your 
own  motives — silly  fool  that  I  am!"  He  turned  to 
hurry  from  the  room.  Travers  barred  his  way. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  shall  tell  the  Colonel  the  truth!" 

"It  will  break  his  heart." 

"I  do  not  believe  it.    Out  of  the  way,  Travers  1" 

"And  then?" 


316  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"Rajah  Nehal  Singh  shall  be  told." 

"Have  you  considered  the  consequences?" 

"I  have." 

"Lois  will  be  ruined !" 

"You  will  be  ruined.  Lois  will  have  my  protection, 
thank  God!" 

The  two  men  faced  eath  other  an  instant  in  silence. 
Travers'  face  betrayed  a  curious  complex  emotion  of 
desperation  and  shame.  He  had  been  called  a  black- 
guard, and  the  word  had  stung  like  the  cut  of  a  horse- 
whip. He  had  never  believed  it  possible  that  any  man 
should  have  the  right  to  use  such  a  term — to  him,  the 
embodiment  of  geniality,  good-humor  and  good-na- 
ture. He  did  not  believe  even  now  that  any  one  had 
the  right.  He  was  not  an  unprincipled  man — not  in 
the  sense  that  he  had  ever  consciously  done  wrong. 
He  did  not  know  what  wrong  was — his  one  concep- 
tion being  an  act  putting  him  within  reach  of  the  law ; 
and  of  such  an  indiscretion  he  had  never  been  guilty. 
Throughout  his  scheming  he  had  always  pictured  him- 
self as  a  complaisant  Napoleon  of  finance,  combining 
business  with  pleasure.  His  conduct  toward  Lois  had 
been  based  on  this  standpoint.  He  was  genuinely 
fond  of  her,  and  is  there  any  law  forbidding  a  man  to 
lay  firm  hold  upon  his  wife's  money?  Yet  Stafford 
had  called  him  a  blackguard,  and  Stafford  was  the 
world — the  world  of  respectability  of  which  Travers 
had  believed  himself  a  gifted  member.  For  the  mo- 
ment the  incomprehensible  insult  was  more  to  him  than 
the  coming  danger  to  which  his  plans  were  put. 

"You  look  at  me  as  though  I  had  committed  a 
crime !"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  injured  protest. 

"You    have,"    Stafford    answered    steadily.      "You 


MURDER  317 

have  fooled  me,  playing  on  my  prejudices,  and  God 
knows  what  other  weaknesses.  I  won't  say  anything 
of  that.  I  deserve  my  share  of  blame.  But  you  have 
tricked  and  deceived  a  woman.  You  have  deceived 
an  honorable  man  into  a  dishonorable  venture.  You 
have  brought  disaster  on  your  own  country.  You  are 
no  more  than  a  common  adventurer.  You  are  the  par- 
asite to  whom  we  owe  all  our  misfortunes,  and — " 

"Stafford,  take  care!". 

"Out  of  the  way!  I  am  going  to  put  an  end  to  it 
all!" 

Trav.ers  flung  the  excited  man  back.  Shame  is  a 
dangerous  poison  in  the  blood  of  base  natures.  It  is 
merely  the  precursor  to  a  state  of  absolute  license 
where  self-control,  self-respect  are  flung  to  the  winds 
and  the  devil  is  set  free  to  work  his  full,  unchecked 
will.  Travers  glared  at  Stafford,  hating  his  upright 
bearing,  his  upright  indignation  with  a  violence  to 
which  murder  would  have  been  the  only  true  expres- 
sion. 

"You  are  not  going  till  I  have  your  promise  to  hold 
your  tongue !"  he  said  between  his  teeth. 

Stafford  flung  the  other's  detaining  hand  from  him. 
Freed  from  his  laming  diseased  conscience,  and  roused 
to  activity,  he  acted  like  a  man  of  lightning  determin- 
ation and  iron  will. 

"That  you  will  never  have,  and  you  are  a  scoundrel 
to  ask  for  it.  As  you  like — there  are  other  exits  than 
the  door."  He  swung  round  and  made  for  the  open 
window. 

Travers  did  not  stop  him.  He  stood  rooted  to  the 
spot,  his  hand  on  the  revolver  which  he  carried  at  his 
side.  The  revolver  had  not  been  meant  for  Stafford. 


318  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

Travers'  quick  eyes  had  caught  sight  of  something 
creeping  slowly  and  stealthily  up  the  verandah  steps. 
He  had  seen  the  flash  of  a  knife,  and  a  cry  of  warning 
had  rushed  to  his  lips.  The  cry  was  never  uttered. 
Devil  and  angel  fought  their  last  battle  over  Travers' 
drifting,  rudderless  nature.  The  word  "scoundrel" 
had  been  the  devil's  winning  cast. 

"Go,  then,  and  be  damned  to  you !"  Travers  shrieked. 

He  saw  Stafford  reach  the  verandah  steps.  The 
stalwart  khaki-clad  figure  was  photographed  on  his 
reeling  brain.  He  heard  the  clank  of  a  sword  against 
the  first  stone  step.  He  tried  to  cry  out — afterward 
he  tried  to  believe  that  he  had  cried  out — but  it  was 
too  late.  The  hidden  something  which  had  crouched 
behind  the  heavy  creepers  sprang  up — for  a  short 
second  seemed  to  tower  above  the  unconscious  officer 
— then  a  gleam  of  light  flashed  down  with  the  black 
hand.  Stafford  flung  up  his  arms,  swung  around,  and 
fell  face  downward  on  the  verandah.  There  was  a 
short,  stifled  groan,  and  then — and  then  only — Travers 
fired. 


Then — and  then  only — Travers  fired.     Page  318 


CHAPTER  VI 

CLEARING  AWAY   THE   RUBBISH 

ALL  the  night  following  the  momentous  meet- 
ing of  the  Marut  Diamond  Company  Mrs.  Gary  had 
kept  to  her  room,  the  door  locked  against  her 
daughter,  and  had  sobbed  and  wailed  in  a  manner 
befitting  the  victim  of  a  hard  and  undeserved  fate. 

But  in  reality  hers  was  the  rage  of  a  clumsy  work- 
man who  has  cut  himself  with  his  own  tools.  Her 
own  child,  her  partner  and  co-worker,  had  upset 
the  erection  of  years.  She  saw  themselves  cast  out 
of  Marut ;  she  saw  the  desolate  wandering  over  the 
earth's  surface,  this  time  without  the  consolation 
and  protection  of  wealth.  For  she  knew  that  Bea- 
trice's confession  was  to  go  further.  Beatrice  had 
made  the  announcement  of  her  plans  quietly  but 
firmly  as  they  had  driven  home  from  the  club-house. 

"To-morrow  everybody  shall  know  everything 
there  is  to  know,"  she  had  said,  and  had  remained 
obdurate  to  all  her  mother's  commands  and  plead- 
ings. "I  do  consider  you.  I  consider  you  even 
now.  I  mean  to  save  you  and  myself.  But  this 
time  it  must  be  in  another  way.  Your  scheming 
has  only  brought  us  into  deeper  trouble.  We  must 
start  afresh." 

"But  how?  But  how?"  her  mother  had  said, 
wringing  her  hands  in  uncontrolled  despair.  "Where 

319 


'320  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

are  we  to  start?  How  are  we  ever  going  to  make 
people  believe  in  us,  now  we  have  no  money  ?" 

"It  does  not  matter  what  people  believe,"  Beatrice 
had  replied.  "With  our  money  and  our  lies  we 
have  been  building  mud-hovels,  and  now  we  are  going 
to  build  palaces.  That's  all  that  matters." 

Mrs.  Gary  had  not  understood.  She  thought  Bea- 
trice had  gone  mad,  and  knowing  that  with  madness, 
reasoning  is  in  vain,  she  shut  herself  up  in  her  room, 
pulled  down  the  blinds,  and  believed  by  this  os- 
trich-like proceeding  that  she  could  keep  off  the 
inevitable  moment  when  they  would  have  to  be 
pulled  up  again  and  the  cold,  pitiless  reality  faced. 

But  Beatrice  went  her  way  undeterred.  From 
Stafford's  bungalow  she  drove  to  the  Travers'.  The 
place  was  little  more  than  an  ill-cared-for  shanty, 
the  garden  overgrown  with  weeds,  the  rooms  damp, 
ill-aired  and  badly  furnished,  its  reputation  for  mis- 
fortune phenomenal.  Travers  had  taken  it  as  the 
only  bungalow  to  be  had  for  such  a  short  period 
as  he  intended  to  stay  in  Marut,  and  Lois  had  made 
no  objection.  Her  energy  and  determined  striving 
after  everything  that  was  graceful  and  beautiful 
was  systematically  crushed  out  of  sight.  She  never 
protested,  never  laid  any  difficulties  in  Travers'  path. 
She  seemed  to  shrink  into  herself  and  live  an  in- 
visible life  of  her  own,  leaving  him  to  go  his  way. 
She  could  not  help  him.  She  could  build  up  noth- 
ing on  a  character  whose  foundations  were  of  shift- 
ing sand. 

And  never  had  she  been  more  fully  convinced 
of  her  own  powerlessness  and  of  his  absolute  in- 
dependence than  after  their  brief  and  stormy  inter- 


CLEARING  THE  RUBBISH  321 

view  before  Stafford's  entry.  She  had  felt  how  for 
a  moment  their  two  diametrically  opposed  natures 
had  faced  each  other.  She  had  felt  a  brief  joyful 
satisfaction  in  at  last  coming  to  a  hand-to-hand 
struggle  with  him ;  but  then,  as  usual,  with  a  smile 
and  an  easy  word  he  had  eluded  her.  So  it  had 
always  been — so  it  would  always  be.  Too  late  she 
realized  that  she  had  thrown  away  her  life  upon  a 
man  who  had  no  need  of  her  devotion.  Too  late 
she  realized  that  all  sacrifices  are  wasted  unless  the 
ennobling  of  the  sacrificer's  character  he  considered. 
For  true  happiness,  true  content  and  goodness  can 
not  be  given.  They  must  be  self-won,  or  they  are 
no  more  than  hothouse  plants  which  shrivel  to- 
gether in  the  cold  blast  of  an  east  wind.  Lois  had 
sacrificed  herself  to  bring  true  happiness  and  con- 
tent and  goodness  into  Travers'  life,  and  had  failed. 
She  had  failed  all  the  more  signally  because  she 
had  never  loved  him.  She  had  loved  Stafford — ex- 
traordinary and  terrible  as  it  seemed  to  her,  she 
still  loved  him.  She  could  not  root  him  out  of  her 
life,  and  though  his  image  was  overshadowed  by  a 
greater  and  more  noble  figure  he  retained  his  place. 
The  glance  they  had  exchanged  had  pierced  down 
to  the  very  center  of  her  being,  and  if  it  had  re- 
vealed nothing  to  her  it  had  also  revealed  every- 
thing. For  she  knew  now  that  the  strange  bond 
which  had  linked  them  together  from  the  begin- 
ning united  them  still.  Some  reckless  and  unscru- 
pulous hand  had  sundered  them  outwardly,  and 
her  instinct,  guided  by  a  hundred  significant  inci- 
dents, told  her  whose  hand  it  had  been.  She  fled 
to  her  little  gloomy  sitting-room,  with  its  worn- 


322  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

out,  tasteless  furniture  and  drab  walls,  and  fought 
her  sorrow  and  despair  single-handed  and  in  her 
own  way.  She  had  a  man's  dislike  for  tears — 
though,  being  a  woman,  they  came  all  too  easily 
to  her — and  she  fought  against  them  now  with  all 
the  strength  at  her  command,  with  all  the  pluck 
which  in  happier  days  had  made  her  so  splendid 
a  partner  in  a  "losing  game."  She  had  made  a  dis- 
astrous mistake  in  her  life,  but  it  was  not  too  late. 

The  cathedral  should  go  on  in  its  unseen  growth, 
and  every  conquered  tear,  every  brave  smile  was 
a  fresh  stone  bringing  it  nearer  to  perfection.  God 
be  thanked  for  the  fetishes  with  which  the  less  for- 
tunate of  us  are  still  allowed  to  adorn  the  barren 
walls  of  our  life!  The  cathedral,  the  imaginary 
"sheltering-place  for  others,"  was  Lois'  fetish,  and 
the  thought  of  it  and  of  the  strong-faced  man  with 
whom  she  worked  in  spiritual  partnership  was  a 
deep,  inspiring  consolation.  It  stood  at  her  right 
hand  and  helped  partly  to  overthrow  the  weight 
of  dread  and  evil  presentiment  which  had  borne 
down  upon  her  all  too  sensitive  and  superstitious 
temperament  as  she  had  left  her  husband  and  Staf- 
ford alone. 

Thus  it  was  that,  when  the  curtains  of  her  room  were 
suddenly  parted  and  Beatrice  stood  on  the  threshold, 
she  could  face  the  new-comer  with  a  calm  if  grave  de- 
meanor. She  remembered  her  husband's  last  injunc- 
tions, but  it  was  too  late ;  and  moreover,  there  was  an 
expression  on  Beatrice's  face  which  told  her  that  the 
visit  was  no  ordinary  one.  A  woman's  instinct  is  her 
spiritual  hand  feeling  through  the  darkness  to  another's 
soul.  Beatrice  and  Lois  watched  each  other  without 


CLEARING  THE  RUBBISH  323 

smile  or  greeting.  They  forgot  the  outward  formalities 
of  life  in  the  suddenly  aroused  interest  which  they 
found  in  each  other,  in  the  consciousness  that  in 
this,  their  first  meeting  alone,  they  were  to  become 
closely  united. 

They  were  indeed  striking  contrasts.  At  no  time 
had  they  seemed  more  so  than  now,  as  they  stood 
there  silently  facing  each  other — Beatrice,  tall,  fair 
with  the  wonderful  Madonna  beauty ;  Lois,  small 
and  dark,  the  quick  and  fiery  temperament  flashing 
to  meet  the  other's  dignity  and  apparent  calm.  And 
yet  at  no  time  had  the  barrier  between  them  been 
so  insignificant,  so  slight.  Beatrice  advanced  slowly 
from  the  door,  where  she  had  first  hesitated. 

"May  I  speak  with  you,  Mrs.  Travers?"  she  asked. 

Lois  nodded,  mechanically  holding  out  her  hand. 
Her  eyes  were  riveted  on  the  other's  grave  face, 
drinking  in  with  a  real  admiration  a  loveliness  from 
which  the  old  marring  lines  of  mockery  and  cyni- 
cism had  been  swept  away. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  she  said  gently.  "You 
look  tired  and  pale." 

Beatrice  seemed  not  to  hear.  She  took  the  out- 
stretched hand  between  both  her  own.  Her  head 
was  a  little  bent,  and  as  she  looked  full  into  Lois' 
face  her  expression  softened  and  saddened. 

"You,  too,  are  unhappy!"  she  said. 

Lois  made  no  answer.  She  was  overwhelmed 
by  the  directness  of  the  statement,  but  still  more 
by  the  change  in  Beatrice's  voice.  It  sounded  low 
and  unsteady,  as  though  a  storm  of  feeling  lay  close 
beneath  the  surface.  "Do  you  wonder  how  I  know?" 
Beatrice  went  on,  after  an  instant's  pause. 


324  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"I  don't  know,"  Lois  answered,  "and  for  the  mo- 
ment we  won't  talk  about  such  things.  I  can't 
bear  to  see  you  look  so — so  ill.  You  must  sit  there 
and  let  me  get  you  something  to  drink.  Have  you 
walked?" 

Beatrice  yielded  this  time  to  the  kindly  persua- 
sion. She  sank  down  in  the  proffered  chair,  but 
she  retained  Lois'  hand. 

"No,  I  drove.  But  I  am  tired.  It  was  not  easy 
work  getting  through  the  crowd.  They  did  not  seem 
to  want  to  let  me  pass.  Once  or  twice  I  thought  they 
were  going  to  attack  me." 

Lois  laughed. 

"They  are  only  pilgrims.  They  come  every  year, 
and  are  quite  harmless.  Hark  at  them  now!  There 
must  be  a  band  of  them  going  past.  Would  you  like  to 
watch  from  the  verandah?  It  is  really  amusing — 

"No,  no;  this  is  not  the  time  for  amusement.  I 
have  something  else  to  do.  Mrs.  Travers,  you  are 
very  kind  to  me.  You  have  the  right  to  hate  me." 

"I — hate  you?    Why  should  I,  Beatrice?" 

"You  call  me  Beatrice.  But  we  have  never  been 
friends." 

"Not  till  now." 

"Do  you  think  we  are  going  to  be  ?" 

Lois  drew  up  a  stool  and  seated  herself  at  Bea- 
trice's side.  Something  in  the  other's  firm,  gentle 
hold  and  in  the  low  voice  made  her  heart  ache. 

"I  don't  know.  I  feel  as  though  we  were  already." 

"Don't  feel  that,  because  it  is  not  possible.  Mrs. 
Travers,  do  you  know  who  it  was  who  came  be- 
tween you  and  John  Stafford?"  Lois'  head  sank.  "I 


CLEARING  THE  RUBBISH  325 

see  that  you  do.  Yes,  I  did  my  best.  I  wanted  his 
position — and  money.  Are  you  still  my  friend?" 

Lois  met  the  grave,  questioning  eyes  with  a  sud- 
den energy. 

"Yes.  That  is  all  over  and  past.  I  like  you  now. 
I  liked  you  the  moment  you  entered  the  room. 
You  seemed  different." 

Beatrice  smiled  faintly. 

"And  you,  too,  are  different  from  any  one  I  have 
ever  known.  Another  woman  would  not  have  been 
able  to  forgive  as  you  have  done.  I  have  spoiled  your 
life.  I  can  see  that." 

Lois  pressed  her  hand. 

"Hush !  You  must  not  say  so.    I  am  married — " 

"Lois,  I  have  spoiled  your  life.  I  have  come  here 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  and  you  also  must  be  truth- 
ful. For  pity's  sake,  let  us  put  lies  and  humbug 
on  one  side.  I  am  sick  of  them!"  For  a  moment 
she  seemed  to  fight  desperately  with  herself,  and 
then  she  went  on  more  quietly :  "I  have  spoiled  your 
life.  I  have  spoiled  the  life  of  a  man  who  trusted  me. 
I  have  spoiled  my  own.  That  is  what  I  have  done  in 
the  twenty-five  years  given  me  to  work  in.  I  have 
lied  and  cheated  my  way  through.  And  this  is  the  end 
— miserable  bankruptcy." 

"Yes,"  Lois  said,  nodding.    "I  heard  about  it." 

"About  what?    Has  your  husband  told  you?" 

"The  Marut  Company  has  failed." 

Beatrice  sat  silent  a  moment.  Her  free  hand  sup- 
ported the  firmly  moulded  chin,  her  eyes  were  fixed 
thoughtfully  in  front  of  her. 

"I  did  not  mean  that  sort  of  bankruptcy,"  she  said 


326  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

at  last.  "That  doesn't  count,  Lois.  I  used  to  think 
it  meant  the  worst  sort  of  misfortune,  but  it  doesn't. 
The  inner  bankruptcy  is  worse.  The  loss  of  self- 
respect,  of  honor,  of  the  trust  of  those  one — cares 
for — "  Again  the  low  voice  trembled  dangerously, 
but  she  went  on:  "Don't  commiserate  with  me, 
kind-hearted  little  woman.  I  don't  need  your  pity 
— now.  Bankruptcy  isn't  so  bad.  It  is  better  than 
living  on  false  credit.  When  the  crash  is  over,  one 
picks  oneself  up  again.  Hope  is  eternal,  and  on  the 
ruins — " 

"One  can  build  cathedrals,"  Lois  interposed 
dreamily. 

"Yes,  or  palaces.  But  first  the  old  rubbish  must 
be  cleared  away.  One  must  pay  one's  debts.  I 
have  very  many  to  pay.  First  to  you,  Lois — " 

"Don't !    I  have  told  you  that  that  is  all  over." 

" — and  then  to  Captain  Stafford.  Lois,  I  did  want  to 
take  him  away  from  you,  but  I  never  succeeded.  It 
was  something  else  that  did  it — something  which 
I  have  never  understood." 

"But  which  my  husband  knows?" 

Beatrice  nodded.  She  was  not  there  to  spare 
Lois  or  herself.  She  was  there  to  tell  the  truth. 

"Yes,  he  knows.  But  it  is  a  mystery  which  we 
shall  never  penetrate.  At  any  rate,  I  have  set  Cap- 
tain Stafford  free." 

Lois  said  nothing.  Her  thoughts  were  busy  try- 
ing to  piece  together  the  secret.  With  every  mo- 
ment distrust  and  suspicion  were  taking  stronger 
hold  upon  her. 

"Lois,"  Beatrice  went  on,  "that  is  the  least  of  it 
all.  The  worst  of  all  is  that  I  can  not  pay  my  debts 


CLEARING  THE  RUBBISH  327 

alone.  I  must  go  on  ruining  others.  I  must  ruin 
you." 

Lois  stiffened.  She  sat  upright,  as  though  pre- 
paring herself  for  a  shock  which  she  dimly  antici- 
pated. 

"Tell  me  what  you  mean,"  she  said. 

"You  remember  it  was  I  who  tempted  Rajah  Ne- 
hal  Singh  into  forming  the  Marut  Company — " 

"That  is  not  what  you  want  to  say.  It  was  my 
husband's  scheme." 

"Very  well,  it  was  our  scheme,  if  you  like.  At 
any  rate,  the  whole  responsibility  rests — or  should 
rest — upon  our  shoulders.  We  have  ruined  him, 
and  we  have  ruined  hundreds  of  others.  It  is  only 
fair  that  we  should  bear  our  share  of  the  calamity." 

"And  haven't  we  done  so?  You  have  lost  all  your 
money.  That  is  punishment  enough.  And  Archie, 
too — "  She  paused,  a  fierce  note  of  defiance  ringing 
out  with  her  last  words.  Beatrice  made  no  answer, 
and  the  two  women  looked  at  each  other  in  signifi- 
cant silence.  "You  don't  mean  that — that  it  was — 
dishonest?" 

"I  have  no  doubt  Mr.  Travers  believed  the  mine 
was  going  to  be  a  success.  But  it  has  failed,  and 
the  whole  burden  of  the  failure  rests  upon  others, 
not  upon  him." 

"My  husband  is  ruined,  too.  All  his  money  is 
gone." 

"Yours  remains." 

"Yes,  but — "  She  stammered  and  broke  off  help- 
lessly. 

Beatrice  said  nothing  more.  She  saw  the  process 
of  rapid  thought  on  her  companion's  working  face. 


328  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

She  knew  there  was  no  need  to  explain  further  the 
careful  precautions  which  Travers  had  made  for  his 
own  safety.  She  knew  that  for  his  wife  there  was 
only  one  action  possible.  Lois  rose  to  her  feet. 

"You  must  forgive  me,"  she  said,  a  new  and  dan- 
gerous light  in  her  dark  eyes.  "I  am  very  slow  and 
stupid  about  business  matters,  but  I  understand 
what  you  have  been  trying  to  say  to  me.  You  have 
pointed  out  a  duty  to  me  which  otherwise,  in  my 
ignorance,  I  might  have  overlooked.  My  husband 
has  incurred  responsibilities  which  must  be  met — 
if  not  by  him,  at  any  rate  by  me.  No  third  person 
shall  take  his  share  of  the  burden — certainly  not 
the  Rajah,  who  was  no  more  than  the  tool  which 
my  husband  used.  I  would  be  glad  if  you  would 
let  every  one  know  that  of  course  my  money  will 
go  toward  refunding  those  whom  the  failure  of  the 
mine  has  injured." 

Beatrice  rose  also.  She  put  her  two  hands  on 
Lois'  shoulders. 

"You  needn't  do  it,"  she  said.  "The  money  is 
yours.  It  is  a  thing  that  is  done  every  day.  The 
world  won't  say  much  if  you  stick  to  what  is  yours." 

"It  is  not  mine.  My  husband's  responsibilities 
are  my  responsibilities."  She  paused,  and  then 
went  on  quietly :  "Thank  you  for  explaining  to  me. 
I  should  never  have  understood  myself,  and  Archie 
— no  doubt  dreads  having  to  tell  me  that  of  course 
my  money  must  go,  too."  She  looked  Beatrice  full 
in  the  face,  and  they  understood  each  other.  There 
are  some  lies  which  a  loyal  woman  must  carry  with 
her  to  the  grave.  Beatrice  bent  and  kissed  the  cold 
face. 


CLEARING  THE  RUBBISH  329 

"You  do  right,"  she  said.  "I  knew  you  would. 
That  is  why  I  came  to  you.  I  have  helped  to  bring 
down  all  this  misfortune  on  Marut.  I  have  helped 
to  lower  us  all  in  the  eyes  of  those — those  who  used 
and  ought  to  look  up  to  us.  Now  you  are  going 
to  lift  us  out  of  the  mire — Lois,  what  was  that?" 

The  two  women  clung  to  each  other.  Hitherto 
there  had  been  no  sound  in  the  adjoining  room 
save  the  regular  rise  and  fall  of  two  voices.  Now 
the  startled  listeners  heard  the  report  of  a  revol- 
ver, followed  by  a  sudden,  absolute  silence.  Lois 
shook  herself  free  from  Beatrice's  instinctive  clutch. 

"It  is  in  my  husband's  room !"  she  said  hoarsely. 
"Stay  here !  I  will  go—" 

She  hurried  across  the  room  and,  thrusting  open 
a  curtained  door,  disappeared.  The  next  instant 
Beatrice  heard  a  cry  which  overcame  every  hesita- 
tion. Horror  and  despair  called  her  in  that  sound, 
and  the  next  moment  she  followed  Lois'  footsteps. 
She  did  not  know  what  she  expected  to  see.  After- 
ward she  believed  that  at  the  back  of  her  mind 
there  had  been  some  thought  of  suicide.  But  it 
was  not  Travers'  head  that  she  saw  pillowed  against 
Lois'  knee.  Travers  stood  on  the  verandah,  the 
smoking  pistol  still  in  his  hand,  his  face  livid  and 
damp  with  fear.  At  his  feet  his  wife  was  bending 
over  the  body  of  a  man  whom  Beatrice  recognized  with 
a  shock  of  pain. 

"What  has  happened?"  she  asked  breathlessly. 
"What  has  happened?" 

Travers  turned  and  stared  at  her.  His  eyes  were 
glazed,  and  for  the  moment  he  did  not  seem  to 
know  who  she  was. 


330  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"Captain  Stafford  has — been  murdered !"  he  stam- 
mered. "He  was  going  down  the  steps  when  a  na- 
tive attacked  him.  I — fired,  but  it  was  too  late. 
Oh,  thank  God  !  Here  is  Colonel  Carmichael !" 

True  enough,  it  was  the  Colonel  himself  who 
sprang  up  the  verandah  steps.  From  beyond  the 
ill-kept  garden  they  heard  the  tramp  of  men  and  a 
low,  continuous  sound,  like  the  threatening  moan  of 
the  wind.  On  the  verandah  reigned  a  complete 
and  awestruck  silence.  Colonel  Carmichael  bent 
over  the  unconscious  man. 

"This  is  the  beginning,"  he  said  somberly.  "How 
did  it  happen?" 

"A  native  must  have  been  lying  in  wait  for  him," 
Travers  answered.  "He  struck  at  him  with  this." 
He  held  out  a  three-inch  blade  in  a  hand  which 
shook  like  a  child's.  "I  tried  to  save  him,  but  I 
couldn't.  The  man  escaped,  though  I  think  I  hit 
him." 

The  Colonel  knelt  down  by  Lois'  side,  and  draw- 
ing out  his  brandy-flask  tried  to  force  a  few  drops 
between  the  purple  lips. 

"We  were  expecting  him  every  minute,"  he  said, 
"but  we  couldn't  wait.  The  danger  was  too  press- 
ing. Here,  man — it's  all  right.  Look  up." 

Captain  Stafford's  heavy  eyelids  had  wavered. 
The  Colonel  shifted  him  into  a  higher  position,  his 
head  still  resting  against  Lois'  knee.  When  the 
dying  eyes  opened  they  fell  straight  on  the  sweet 
dark  face  bent  over  him  in  loving  pity. 

"Lois!"  he  whispered  faintly.  "Lois — my — kiss 
me!" 

Lois  looked  up  at  her  husband.    He  nodded  with- 


CLEARING  THE  RUBBISH  331 

out  meeting  her  eyes.  Her  lips  rested  on  the  chilly 
forehead. 

"Dear  John!" 

"Lois — you — tell  the  Rajah "  He  struggled 

fiercely  for  breath  and  his  raised  hand  pointed  pite- 
ously  at  Travers.  "Tell  him — not — his  own" —  The 
words  died  into  a  choked  silence. 

"Brandy — here !  He's  trying  to  say  something. 
What  is  it,  man?" 

Stafford  turned  with  a  last  effort,  his  lips  parted. 
A  second  time  he  pointed  with  a  desperate  insist- 
ency at  Travers — then  with  a  sudden  quick-drawn 
sigh  he  sank  back,  his  face  against  Lois'  shoulder. 
Colonel  Carmichael,  who  knew  death  too  well,  rose 
heavily  to  his  feet. 

"It's  all  over,"  he  said.  "We  can  do  nothing 
more  for  him,  and  we  must  leave  him.  Come,  Lois." 

His  stern  command  roused  her  from  her  stupor 
of  half-incredulous  sorrow.  Gently  she  laid  the 
lifeless  head  upon  the  cushions  which  Beatrice  had 
brought,  and  crossed  the  hands  over  the  quiet 
breast.  This  time  she  fought  in  vain  against  the 
blinding  tears.  They  fell  on  the  face  of  the  dead 
man,  and,  moved  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  she 
bent  once  more  and  kissed  him. 

"God  bless  you,  John !"  Then  she  rose  and  faced 
her  husband.  "I  can  not  help  it,"  she  said.  "He  is 
dead." 

Travers  said  nothing.  He  was  clinging  to  the 
verandah,  and  his  face  was  grey.  Outside  the  noise 
and  confusion  had  increased.  They  could  hear  yells 
and  imprecations,  and  a  stone  whizzed  through  the 
trees,  falling  a  few  feet  short  of  where  the  little 


332  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

party  stood.  Colonel  Carmichael  shook  Travers  by 
the  arm. 

"Don't  stand  there  like  that!"  he  said,  his  voice 
rough  with  contempt.  "It  can't  be  helped,  and  I 
dare  say  we  shan't  any  of  us  be  much  better  off  by 
to-morrow.  I  have  a  patrol  outside  waiting  to  take 
the  ladies  over  to  my  bungalow.  Mrs.  Gary  and 
Mrs.  Berry  are  already  there.  There  isn't  a  mo- 
ment to  be  lost.  Rouse  yourself  and  look  to  Lois. 
I  will  escort  Miss  Gary."  He  turned  to  Beatrice 
with  a  stiff  bow.  "The  enemy  must  at  least  find  us 
united." 

"The  enemy !"  exclaimed  Beatrice  sharply. 

"The  Rajah  is  our  enemy,"  was  the  bitter  an- 
swer. "You  and  Travers  best  know  why." 

The  two  women  exchanged  one  brief  glance.  Lois 
crossed  the  intervening  space  and  took  her  husband's 
arm. 

"Archibald,"  she  said,  slowly  and  emphatically, 
"if  this  trouble  has  anything  to  do  with  the  mine, 
it  would  be  well  to  let  the  Rajah  know  that  we  also 
take  our  share.  There  must  be  no  suspicion  that — 
that  we  have  not  acted  honorably  or  have  shirked  our 
responsibilities." 

He  stared  at  her  with  dull,  listless  eyes. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Lois?  He  knows  I  haven't 
a  brass  cent." 

"But  I  have.  And  of  course  my  money  must  go 
to  refund  those  whom  you  have  unintentionally 
ruined." 

That  roused  him.  He  flung  her  on  one  side,  with 
a  desperate,  goaded  curse. 


CLEARING  THE  RUBBISH  333 

"Your  money !  How  dare  you !  It's  not  your 
money.  Half  of  it  is  mine.  I  settled  it  on  you." 

"If  it  is  yours,  I  will  give  it  back  to  you.  You 
will  use  it  as  I  say.  If  not,  I  shall  use  it  for  you." 

Colonel  Carmichael  had  reached  the  garden.  He 
turned  now,  and  there  was  a  gleam  of  satisfaction 
in  his  eyes. 

"That's  spoken  like  an  honorable  woman,  Lois!" 
he  said.  "God  bless  you  for  it.  But  it's  too  late. 
Nicholson  has  already  gone  to  Nehal  Singh.  If  he 
fails,  there  won't  be  any  time  to  explain.  Come  on, 
or  we  shall  have  to  fight  our  way  through." 

He  hurried  on  through  the  garden,  Beatrice  at 
his  side.  Husband  and  wife  stood  an  instant  alone, 
the  body  of  poor  Stafford  between  them.  Lois' 
face  was  grave  and  contemptuous. 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  have  done,"  she  said — 
"I  do  not  understand  what  part  you  played  in  John's 
life  or  in  mine,  nor  how  far  you  are  innocent  or 
guilty  of  bringing  about  all  this  misfortune — but  I 
know  this  much — we  shall  take  our  share  of  trouble." 

"Lois,  you  are  my  wife!  You  have  no  right  to 
go  against  me." 

"I  have  the  right  where  my  honor — where  your  hon- 
or— is  concerned.  I  have  the  right  to  refuse  to  commit 
an  act  of  gross  injustice."  She  glanced  down  once 
more  at  the  quiet  face  of  the  man  who  had  held  so  per- 
sistently upon  her  life  and  heart,  and  her  firmly  com- 
pressed lips  trembled.  "Oh,  Archie,  was  it  worth  while 
— just  for  a  little  bit  of  gain?  Was  it  worth  while? 
We  might  all  have  been  so  happy !" 

He  said  nothing.     His  rage  had  sunk  into  a  sul- 


334  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

len,  dogged  defiance.  The  roar  of  voices  beyond 
the  compound  suddenly  subsided.  They  heard  the 
Colonel's  voice  issuing  a  sharp  command  and  the 
thud  of  grounded  rifles. 

"We  must  go,"  she  said. 

He  followed  her  down  the  steps,  his  face  pain- 
fully averted  from  the  figure  that  lay  motionless 
upon  the  ground.  The  world  is  but  a  reflection  of 
ourselves.  The  sunshine  is  sad  or  joyful  according 
to  our  moods.  We  read  threats  and  promises  in 
the  smiles  of  others  as  our  own  heart  is  hopeful  or 
distrusting.  And  for  Travers,  with  the  bloodstained 
hand,  the  poor  lifeless  body  of  his  enemy  had  be- 
come the  towering  shadow  of  an  approaching  Ne- 
mesis. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IN  THE  TEMPLE  OF  VISHNU 

NICHOLSON  rode  his  horse  slowly  through  the 
crowd  of  dark,  threatening  faces.  He  did  not  hurry  or 
show  any  sign  of  impatience,  anger  or  fear.  In  his  left 
hand  he  carried  a  riding-whip,  but  he  made  no  use  of 
it  except  as  an  encouragement  to  his  well-trained 
charger,  whose  nose  and  broad  breast  forced  a  pas- 
sage, like  a  ship  through  the  waves  of  a  turbulent  sea, 
and  otherwise  he  was  absolutely  unarmed.  A  spec- 
tator ignorant  of  the  truth  might  have  taken  him  for 
an  officer  riding  out  on  some  ordinary  duty,  so  little 
did  the  weight  and  seriousness  of  his  real  errand  ap- 
pear written  on  the  strong  face  beneath  the  shadow 
of  the  helmet. 

There  was  no  opposition  to  his  progress.  His  keen 
eyes  noticed  as  he  passed  out  of  the  residential  quar- 
ter that,  on  the  contrary,  the  crowd  formed  a  sort  of 
disordered  escort  which  surged  restlessly  but  silently 
about  him.  One  man  even  laid  hold  upon  his  hanging 
bridle  and  led  the  horse  through  the  less  dense  pas- 
sages ;  but  the  action  was  not  a  friendly  one,  and 
though  no  threats  were  uttered,  Nicholson  read  a  pas- 
sionate bitterness  and  distrust  upon  the  faces  that 
thrust  themselves  across  his  path  or  sprang  up  un- 
expectedly at  his  knee.  For  the  most  part  they  were 
men  well  known  to  him  by  sight.  They  belonged  to 

335 


336  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

a  working  caste  whose  circles  had  supplied  Nehal 
Singh  with  his  best  workmen,  though  here  and  there 
Nicholson  caught  sight  of  the  turbaned  head  of  a  small 
merchant  or  the  naked  body  of  a  yogi. 

It  was  a  significant  fact  that  the  worst  of  Marut's 
population — the  beggars,  thieves  and  vagrants — was 
mostly  lacking.  These  men  were  the  hope  upon  which 
Nehal  Singh  had  built  his  Utopia,  the  industrious,  in- 
telligent minority,  and  these  were  they  whom  he  was 
now  calling  about  him  by  the  power  of  personality  and 
superstition.  Nicholson  knew  enough  of  the  Hindu 
character  to  be  well  aware  that  it  was  not  the  loss  of 
employment  nor  of  their  small  savings  which  had 
brought  them  together  and  put  their  knives  in  their 
hands  ready  to  strike.  The  Hindu  accepts  misfortune 
with  the  languid  stoicism  of  the  fatalist ;  injury  and 
wrong  rarely  rouse  him,  especially,  as  in  this  case, 
when  it  comes  too  indirectly  for  him  to  trace  the  real 
injurer.  But  to  touch  his  religion  is  to  touch  the  in- 
nermost sanctuary  of  his  being,  where  are  stored  the 
hidden  fires  of  fanatic  energy,  hatred  and  reckless 
courage.  And  Nehal  Singh  was  their  religion,  their 
Messiah,  the  Avatar  for  whose  coming  their  whole  na- 
tion waited.  Hitherto  he  had  led  them  in  peace,  and 
they  had  followed,  though  other  influences  had  been 
at  work. 

Even  in  this  moment  he  still  controlled  them. 
Nicholson  felt  that  a  strong  unseen  hand  held  the 
crowd  in  that  strange  silence  beneath  which  rumbled 
and  groaned  the  growing  storm.  He  had  seen  dark 
hands  finger  the  unsheathed  knives ;  he  had  seen  them 
reluctantly  fall  away.  The  hour  had  not  yet  come. 
Nehal  Singh  waited.  For  what?  For  him?  The 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  OF  VISHNU          337 

idea  seemed  absurd,  and  yet,  as  Nicholson  felt  himself 
being  swept  on,  it  took  stronger  hold  upon  his  mind 
and  his  faint  hope  of  success  revived.  He  believed 
that,  once  face  to  face  with  the  prince,  he  would  be 
able  to  check  the  headlong  disaster  which  was  bearing 
down  upon  them  all.  They  had  been  friends  in  a  cu- 
rious unacknowledged  way.  Nehal  Singh  would  listen 
to  him.  He  would  be  made  to  understand  that  one  ad- 
venturer and  one  heartless  woman  do  not  make  a  na- 
tion; that  the  injury  done  him  was  far  from  irrepar- 
able. 

A  low  exclamation  close  at  hand  roused  him  from 
his  rapid  considerations.  He  saw  that  the  man  who 
had  hold  of  his  horse's  bridle  had  turned  and  with  one 
outstretched  hand  was  pointing  over  the  heads  of  the 
crowd. 

"Look,  Sahib,  look!" 

Nicholson  glanced  in  the  direction  indicated.  They 
were  passing  the  site  of  the  old  Bazaar,  now  a  black, 
scarred  waste  of  machinery  and  disembowelled  earth 
over  which  brooded  a  death-like  quiet.  Nicholson  re- 
membered vividly  the  day  he  had  ridden  there  at  Nehal 
Singh's  side.  A  breathless,  eager  humanity  had 
worked  and  slaved  beneath  the  scorching  sun,  re- 
doubling every  effort  as  the  fine  commanding  presence 
of  the  young  ruler  appeared  among  them.  Then  the 
clank  of  busy  machinery  had  mingled  with  the  shouted 
orders  of  the  English  overseers,  and  Nehal  Singh  had 
turned  to  him  with  a  grave  pride  and  happiness. 

"See  what  your  people  have  taught  my  people,"  he 
said.  "They  have  taught  them  to  seek  their  bread 
from  the  earth  and  to  leave  their  dreams.  This  is 
only  the  beginning.  The  time  shall  come  when  they 


338  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

shall  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  their  white 
brethren !" 

How  had  the  over-sanguine  prophecy  been  fulfilled ! 
The  native  at  Nicholson's  side  pointed  a  finger  of 
scorn  and  anger  at  the  silent,  ruined  waste. 

"Devil — English  devil !"  he  said  laconically,  and  con- 
tinued on  his  way. 

Nicholson's  lips  tightened.  His  own  words  came 
back  to  him  with  a  new  significance:  "In  a  strange 
country  no  one  is  an  exception."  This  Travers,  this 
one  unscrupulous  fortune-hunter,  heedless  of  every- 
thing save  his  own  advancement,  had  branded  them 
all.  He  had  undone,  with  the  help  of  a  heedless 
woman,  the  work  of  generations  of  heroic,  honest  labor. 
Truly  the  chain  of  individual  responsibility  is  a  long 
one! 

Nicholson  had  left  Colonel  Carmichael's  bungalow 
at  twelve  o'clock.  The  increasing  crowd  and  Staf- 
ford's prolonged  absence  had  urged  him  to  instant  and 
independent  action.  In  the  best  of  cases,  he  had  little 
faith  in  the  brother-officer's  secret  mission.  Stafford 
was  not  the  man  to  exert  any  influence  over  the  native 
mind.  He  was  the  type  of  the  capable  and  well-mean- 
ing English  officer  who,  excellent  leader  in  his  own 
country,  is  of  small  use  when  face  to  face  with  Indian 
problems  of  character  and  prejudice.  Nicholson  had 
judged  himself  the  better  advocate,  and  having  ob- 
tained the  Colonel's  reluctant  permission,  he  had  at 
once  started  for  the  royal  palace.  But  his  progress 
had  been  painfully  slow,  and  he  had  made  no  effort  to 
hurry. 

Any  sign  of  anxiety  or  excitement  would  have 
looked  like  fear  to  the  suspicious,  hate-filled  eyes  of  the 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  OF  VISHNU          339 

men  who  swarmed  about  him,  and  whatever  else  hap- 
pened, they  should  not  see  an  Englishman  afraid.  The 
knowledge  that  he  rode  there  alone,  the  representative 
of  his  nation,  added  a  greater  dignity,  a  greater  firm- 
ness to  his  already  calm  and  upright  bearing.  It  was 
no  new  situation  for  him — it  is  never  an  exceptional 
situation  in  a  country  where  Englishmen  are  always 
in  the  minority — and  it  inspired  him,  as  it  had  always 
done  since  his  earliest  lieutenant  days.  He  knew  that 
as  he  acted,  looked,  and  spoke,  so  would  the  image  of 
his  country  be  stamped  upon  the  minds  of  a  hundred 
thousand  and  their  children's  children.  There  was 
no  vanity,  no  self-importance  in  this  conception  of  his 
duty.  It  was  a  stern,  unbending  acceptance  of  his 
responsibility ;  and  as  in  the  lonely  fort  upon  the  fron- 
tier where  he  had  dominated,  unaided,  month  after 
month,  over  wild,  antagonistic  races,  so  now,  unarmed 
and  unprotected,  he  dominated  over  the  fanatic  rabble 
by  the  pure  force  of  a  complete  personality.  He  was  to 
all  intents  and  purposes  their  prisoner,  but  he  rode 
there  as  their  conqueror;  and  that  most  splendid  tri- 
umph of  all  triumphs — the  unseen  victory  of  will  over 
will — filled  him  with  a  new  confidence  and  hope. 

Yet  it  was  three  o'clock  before  he  reached  the  pal- 
ace gates.  It  seemed  to  him  that  they  had  deterred 
his  progress  for  some  unknown  purpose,  and  the 
thought  of  those  he  had  left  behind  caused  him  pro- 
found uneasiness.  Native  treachery  was  proverbial, 
and  no  doubt  Nehal  Singh  felt  himself  justified  in  any 
conduct  that  seemed  wise  to  him.  In  any  case,  there 
was  no  return.  The  crowd  in  front  of  Nicholson  sank 
back  like  a  receding  tide  as  he  rode  through  the  open 
gates  and  then  closed  in  behind,  following  in  one 


340  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

dense  stream  as  he  proceeded  slowly  up  the  splendid 
avenue.  He  felt  now  that  he  was  in  the  hands  of 
destiny.  Through  the  trees  he  caught  sight  of  the 
palace  steps  where  Nehal  Singh  had  stood  the  night 
before.  No  living  soul  moved.  The  whole  world 
seemed  to  have  concentrated  itself  behind  him,  a  grim 
and  silent  force  which  was  sweeping  him  onward — 
to  what  end  he  could  not  tell. 

Suddenly  the  native  who  still  held  his  horse's  bridle 
lifted  his  hand  as  he  had  done  before  and  pointed 
ahead. 

"Look,  Sahib !"  he  cried.    "Look !" 

Nicholson  made  no  sign.  He  retained  his  easy  atti- 
tude, one  hand  loosely  holding  the  reins,  the  other 
with  the  riding-whip  resting  negligently  on  his  hip. 
There  was  no  change  in  his  bronzed  face :  his  eyes  took 
in  the  scene  which  an  abrupt  turn  in  the  road  revealed 
to  him  with  a  steadfast  calm,  though  his  pulses  had 
begun  to  beat  furiously.  It  was  as  though  a  painter 
with  two  strokes  of  a  mighty  brush  had  smeared  the 
square  before  the  temple  with  a  great  moving  stain. 
Only  one  narrow  white  line  reached  up  to  the  temple 
doorway.  On  either  side,  right  up  to  the  gopuras  and 
stretching  far  away  down  the  branching  paths,  a  living 
mass  stood  and  waited,  their  faces  turned  toward 
him.  Pilgrims  they  might  have  been,  but  he  saw  in 
the  foremost  row  men  with  their  dark  hands  clasped 
over  the  muzzles  of  their  rifles,  and  every  here  and 
there  the  sunlight  flashed  back  a  reflection  from  the 
cold  steel  at  their  sides.  They  made  no  sound  as  he 
rode  between  them;  only  a  soft  shuffling  behind  him 
told  him  that  the  human  wall  was  closing  in.  He  did 
not  turn.  His  eyes  passed  calmly  over  the  watching 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  OF  VISHNU          341 

faces,  and  the  hands  that  played  at  their  dagger-hilts 
fell  away  as  though  the  piercing  gaze  had  paralyzed 
them.  Thus  he  reached  the  temple,  where  he  dis- 
mounted. 

No  one  had  told  him,  but  he  well  understood 
that  this  was  his  destination,  and  with  a  firm  step 
passed  into  the  inner  court.  For  an  instant  the  sud- 
den change  from  brilliant  daylight  to  an  almost  com- 
plete darkness  dazzled  him.  He  saw  nothing  but  a 
moving  shadow  intermingled  with  points  of  fire  that 
glowed  steadily  in  two  long  rows  up  to  the  altar, 
where  fell  a  single  ray  of  golden  sunshine.  Helmet 
in  hand,  he  moved  slowly  forward,  every  nerve  strung 
taut  with  suspense.  As  his  eyes  grew  accustomed  to 
the  curious  half-light,  he  saw  that  the  unreal  shadows 
were  men  grouped  on  either  side  behind  rows  of  torch- 
bearers.  The  red  flare  fell  on  their  fixed,  unmoved 
faces,  and  threw  weird  shadows  backward  and  for- 
ward among  the  massive  pillars  whose  capitals  faded 
into  the  intensified  gloom  overhead.  There  was  no 
other  movement,  no  other  sound  save  Nicholson's  own 
footsteps,  which  echoed  loud  and  threatening  in  that 
petrified  silence.  On  the  altar  itself  a  Holy  Lamp 
burned  steadily,  and  behind,  half  obliterated  by  a  lone- 
ly, upright  figure,  the  great  three-headed  god  stretched 
out  ghost-like  arms  into  the  sunshine  that  descended 
in  a  narrow  ladder  of  pure  light  to  mingle  with  the 
altar  fire. 

Nicholson  moved  on.  At  the  altar  steps  he  came  to 
a  halt  and  waited.  The  figure  did  not  stir  nor  seem 
to  be  aware  of  his  presence.  A  torch-bearer  knelt  on 
the  lower  step,  and  the  fiery  deflection  threw  into  plas- 
tic relief  the  set  and  pitiless  features  beneath  the  jew- 


342  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

eled  turban.  Gone  was  the  old  simplicity.  The  hands 
that  lay  clasped  one  upon  the  other  on  the  splendid 
scimitar  were  loaded  with  gems,  and  from  the  turban 
a  single  diamond  sparkled  starlike  in  the  changing  light. 
A  splendid  and  romantic  figure,  truly;  harmonizing 
with  and  dominating  over  the  mysterious  background. 
But  it  was  not  the  splendor,  nor  even  the  stern  tragedy 
written  on  the  worn  and  haggard  face,  which  caused 
Nicholson  to  feel  a  cold  hand  grasp  at  his  bold  self- 
confidence.  It  was  the  sudden  intuitive  realization 
that  here  the  battle  began.  He  was  no  longer  the 
master  personality  towering  over  a  hydra-headed  multi- 
tude. Here  it  was  a  man  against  a  man,  will  against 
will,  despair  against  despair. 

"Hail,  Rajah  Sahib!"  he  said  in  Hindustani. 
"Hail !" 

His  voice  had  echoed  into  silence  before  Nehal 
Singh  moved.  Then  he  lifted  his  hand  in  greeting. 

"Hail,  Englishman !' 

"You  know  me,"  Nicholson  went  on,  drawing  nearer. 
"I  am  Nicholson,  Captain  Nicholson  of  the — Gurkhas." 

"I  do  not  know  you."  There  was  a  pitiless  finality 
in  the  few  words  and  in  the  gesture  which  accom- 
panied them. 

Nicholson  lifted  his  head  to  the  light. 

"Nehal  Singh,  you  lie.    I  was  and  am  your  friend." 

He  heard  a  stir  behind  him,  and  his  instinct,  doubly 
sharpened,  felt  how  a  dozen  hands  had  flown  to  their 
weapons.  Then  again  there  was  silence.  His  eyes 
had  not  flinched  in  their  challenge. 

"I  have  no  friends  among  traitors  and  cowards." 

The  insult  left  Nicholson  calm.  Something  in  the 
tone  in  which  the  words  were  uttered,  something  that 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  OF  VISHNU  343 

rang  more  like  a  broken-hearted  despair  than  contempt, 
touched  him  profoundly. 

"Thou  hast  the  power  to  say  so,  Rajah,"  he  an- 
swered quietly.  "I  am  alone  and  unarmed." 

The  reproach  went  home  to  its  mark.  He  saw  the 
Rajah's  hand  tighten  on  the  sword-hilt  and  a  deeper 
shadow  pass  over  the  handsome  features. 

"Thou  art  right,"  Nehal  Singh  said.  "I  have  mis- 
used my  power,  and  that  I  will  not  do.  Whilst  thou 
art  here  thou  needst  fear  neither  insult  nor  danger." 

"I  fear  neither,"  was  the  answer.  A  bitter,  scorn- 
ful smile  lifted  the  corners  of  the  set  lips. 

"So  thou  sayest."  Then,  with  a  gesture  of  im- 
patience, he  went  on:  "Thou  hast  sought  me  here, 
and  it  is  well.  I  also  have  sought  thee,  for  I  have  a 
message  that  thou  shalt  carry  from  me  to  thy  people. 
Wilt  thou  bear  it  ?" 

"Bear  it  thyself,  Rajah,  to  the  people  with  whom 
thou  hast  lived  in  honor  and  friendship." 

"In  deceit  and  treachery !"  Nehal  Singh  retorted, 
frowning.  "But  enough  of  that.  Wilt  thou  bear  my 
message  ?" 

"If  it  must  be— yes." 

"It  must  be.  Tell  them  first  that  every  bond  that 
linked  us  is  broken.  Tell  them  not  to  count  on  what 
has  been.  What  has  been  is  not  forgotten,  but  it  is 
written  on  my  heart  in  fire  and  blood — it  has  crossed 
out  love  and  respect,  pity  and  mercy." 

"Rajah—" 

"Hear  me  to  the  end,  Englishman!  I  am  not  here 
to  waste  words  with  thee — henceforward  my  acts  shall 
be  my  words.  But  thou  shalt  not  go  back  and  say 
that  it  is  ambition  or  a  mean  revenge  which  has  drawn 


344  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

my  sword  from  its  sheath.  It  is  not  that."  He  paused, 
and  the  hand  which  he  had  raised  to  cut  short  Nich- 
olson's interruption  sank  slowly  back  upon  his  sword- 
hilt.  Then  he  went  on,  and  his  low-pitched  voice 
penetrated  into  the  farthest  corner  of  the  silent  temple : 
"Sahib,  I  loved  thy  people.  I  loved  them  for  their 
past,  for  their  courage,  their  justice,  their  greatness. 
In  my  boy's  mind  they  were  the  heroes  of  the  world, 
and  as  such  I  worshiped  them.  No  poison  could  kill 
my  love — it  seemed  a  part  of  me,  the  innermost  part 
of  my  soul — and  when  for  the  first  time  I  stood  before 
them,  face  to  face,  it  was  as  though  I  lived,  as  though 
I  had  awakened  from  a  dream.  Be  patient,  Englishman, 
for  you  of  all  others  must  understand  that  there  is  for 
me  no  turning  back,  no  yielding.  Great  love  is  sister 
to  a  greater  hate,  respect  to  scorn.  I  came  among 
you,  inexperienced  save  in  dreams,  a  believing  boy — 
fool  if  you  will,  whose  folly  received  its  punishment. 
The  outside  of  the  platter  was  fair  enough  to  have  de- 
ceived those  wiser  than  I,  Sahib.  There  were  lovely 
women  with  the  faces  of  angels,  and  tall  men,  honest- 
eyed  and  brave-tongued.  But  the  outside  was  a  lie — 
a  lie !"  He  lifted  his  hand  again  in  a  sudden  storm 
of  tortured  passion.  "The  women  are  wantons — the 
men  tricksters — " 

"Rajah!"  The  stern  warning  passed,  but  not  un- 
heeded. 

"Thou  art  hurt  and  stung,"  Nehal  said,  in  a  low, 
shaken  voice.  "The  truth  wounds  thee !  For  me — 
it  was  death."  He  hesitated  again,  fighting  for  his 
self-control.  "Sahib,  great  things  are  expected  of  a 
great  people.  Others  may  cheat  and  swindle,  others 
may  lie  and  blaspheme  with  God's  holy  secrets,  others 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  OF  VISHNU          345 

may  seek  their  pleasures  in  the  earth's  mire,  but  they 
must  stand  apart.  They  must  bear  forward  the  banner 
of  righteousness,  or  their  greatness  is  no  more  than 
an  empty  sound — a  bubble  which  the  first  bold  enemy 
may  prick.  Perchance  I  blinded  myself  wilfully,  per- 
chance I  stopped  my  ears.  The  platter  was  fair  to 
my  eyes,  the  falsehood  rang  like  truth.  Now  I  know. 
I  know  that  the  past  is  all  that  is  left  you — you  are  a 
fair  seeming  behind  which  is  decay  and  corrup- 
tion. Were  I  another,  I  would  take  my  broken  faith 
to  the  darkest  corner  of  the  jungle  and  eat  out  my  life 
in  despair  and  sorrow.  But  I  have  another  task  be- 
fore me — my  duty  to  my  people." 

"And  that  duty,  Rajah — ?" 

"A  great  people  must  rule  mine,"  was  the  high  an- 
swer. "I  thought  you  a  great  people,  and  I  used  my 
strength,  my  wealth  and  influence  to  further  your 
power.  But  you  are  not  worthy.  Who  are  you  that 
dare  to  assume  authority  over  millions — you  who  can 
not  rule  yourselves,  you  who  idle  away  your  lives  in 
folly  and  self-seeking?  Well  may  you  crown  your- 
selves with  the  laurels  which  your  fathers  won !  You 
have  none  of  your  own — and  see  to  it  that  those  faded 
emblems  from  a  high  past  are  not  snatched  from  your 
palsied  fingers.  I  at  least  have  flung  from  me  a  yoke 
which  I  despise.  Parasites  shall  not  feast  upon  my 
country !" 

A  low  murmur  arose  from  the  serried  ranks  and 
grew  and  deepened  as  Nicholson  retorted  passion- 
ately : 

"Thou  canst  not  measure  thyself  against  an  Em- 
pire !" 

"Empire  against  Empire !" 


346  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"Marut  is  no  Empire !" 

"All  India  shall  answer  me !" 

At  another  moment  Nicholson  might  have  smiled  at 
so  vain  a  boast,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  him  vain  as  he 
faced  that  towering  figure.  There  was  destiny  written 
in  the  blazing  eyes.  So  might  a  prophet  have  called 
upon  his  nation — so  might  a  nation,  inspired  by  an 
absolute  belief,  have  answered  him  as  this  swaying 
crowd  answered — with  wild,  triumphant  shouts. 

"We  follow  thee,  Anointed  One !  Lead  us,  for  thou 
art  Vishnu,  thou  art  God !" 

"Thou  hearest !"  Nehal  Singh  said,  turning  to  Nich- 
olson. 

"I  hear,"  the  Englishman  answered  significantly. 
"And  I  know,  as  thou  knowest,  that  it  is  a  lie.  Thou 
art  not  God.  Thou  art  a  Christian." 

"No  longer.  How  shall  I  believe  in  a  God  whose 
disciples  mock  His  commandments?"  His  voice  be- 
came inaudible  in  the  suddenly  increased  confusion. 

The  next  instant,  the  torch-bearers,  who  guarded 
the  open  space  around  the  two  men,  were  thrust  vio- 
lently on  one  side,  and  with  a  wild  scream,  which  rang 
high  above  the  uproar,  a  half-naked  figure  rushed  up 
the  steps  and  with  outspread  arms  stood  like  an  evil 
phantom  at  Nehal's  side. 

"He  is  dead !"  he  shrieked.  "He  is  dead !  I  killed 
him — my  knife  it  was  that  killed  him — the  son  of  the 
-Devil  Stafford  is  dead — my  enemy  is  dead!"  He 
swung  around  toward  the  light,  his  arms  still  raised 
and  Nicholson  recognized,  with  a  start  of  repulsion, 
Behar  Singh's  triumphant,  distorted  features.  "Kill!" 
he  shrieked  again.  "Kill  them  all,  son — son — of — the 
— so  is  my  revenge — "  The  harsh,  grating  voice 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  OF  VISHNU          347 

cracked  like  a  steel  blade  that  has  been  snapped  in 
half.  For  a  breathing  space  Behar  Singh  stood  there, 
drawn  to  his  full  height;  then  he  reeled  and  rolled 
with  a  heavy  thud  to  the  lowest  step,  where  he  lay  mo- 
tionless, his  grinning  face  frozen  into  a  look  of  diabol- 
ical joy.  A  slow  oozing  stream  of  blood  crept  over  the 
white  marble  to  Nicholson's  feet.  The  voices  died  into 
silence.  Nicholson  and  Nehal  Singh  faced  each  other 
over  the  dead  body. 

"Thou  seest,"  Nehal  Singh  said.  "There  is  no  turning 
back." 

"No,  there  is  no  turning  back."  The  Englishman 
drew  himself  upright.  The  light  of  unchangeable  res- 
olution illuminated  his  face  and  made  him,  unarmed 
and  dressed  in  the  rigid  simplicity  of  his  uniform,  a 
fine  and  impressive  contrast  to  the  brilliant  bearing  of 
his  opponent.  "Not  that" — pointing  to  Behar  Singh 
and  speaking  in  clear,  energetic  English — "not  that  has 
made  retreat  impossible.  It  was  already  impossible 
before.  Nehal  Singh,  I  came  here  to  plead  with  you. 
I  respected  you  and  pitied  you  too  much  to  allow  you 
to  bring  disaster  upon  yourself  without  an  effort  to 
save  you.  You  say  you  came  among  us  inexperienced 
save  in  dreams.  It  is  true.  Only  a  dreamer  could  have 
hoped  to  find  perfection.  We  are  a  great  people,  Ra- 
jah ;  we  have  always  been  great,  and  we  shall  always 
be. 

"And  if  there  be  corruption  among  us,  it  shall  be 
weeded  out.  In  times  of  peace,  vice  and  folly  grow 
fast.  Scoundrels,  idlers,  boasters  and  fools  grow  side 
by  side  with  prosperity;  they  are  the  weeds  which 
spring  up  on  an  over-cultivated  soil.  But  war  is  the 
uprooting  time  of  corruption,  it  is  the  harvest-time  of 


348  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

what  is  best  and  noblest  in  a  people.  And  that  time 
has  come.  You,  like  your  father,  have  learned  to  de- 
spise and  hate  us.  Perhaps  you  are  right.  You  have 
mingled  with  the  scum  which  rises  to  the  surface  of 
still  waters.  The  scum  shall  be  cleared  away,  and  if  it 
costs  us  the  lives  of  our  greatest,  it  will  not  be  at  too 
high  a  price.  We  as  well  as  you  need  the  bitter  lesson 
which  only  disaster  can  teach  us.  We  shall  see  our 
weakness  face  to  face,  we  shall  root  out  our  weeds 
and  start  afresh.  You  and  the  whole  world  shall  see 
that  the  soil  is  still  rich  with  honor." 

A  change  so  rapid  that  it  was  scarcely  noticeable 
passed  over  the  Hindu's  face.  It  would  have  been  a 
flash  of  hope  but  for  the  contradiction  of  the  scorn- 
fully curved  lips. 

"My  belief  is  dead,  Sahib." 

"It  must  live  again." 

"Would  to  God  that  were  possible!"  Suddenly  he 
leaned  forward  and  spoke  hurriedly  and  in  English. 
"Captain  Nicholson,  there  shall  be  no  treachery.  This 
is  not  a  mutiny  as  in  the  past — it  is  war.  And  war 
is  between  men.  See  that — your  women  are  brought 
into  safety.  I  give  you  till  midnight." 

"They  can  not  go  alone." 

Nehal  Singh  laughed  sneeringly. 

"It  is  not  your  lives  that  I  seek.  Go  with  your 
women.  No  harm  shall  be  done  you.  Make  good  your 
escape,  for  I  swear  that  after  midnight  I  shall  lead  my 
people  against  their  enemies,  and  he  who  falls  into 
their  hands  need  not  hope  for  mercy." 

"And  I  also  swear  an  oath,  Rajah  Nehal  Singh! 
Not  one  of  us  will  leave  Marut.  The  men  will  remain 
at  their  posts,  and  the  women  will  stand  by  them." 


IN  THE  TEMPLE  OF  VISHNU          349 

"You  are  throwing  away  your  lives." 

"They  will  not  be  thrown  away.  They  will  prove  at 
least  that  I  have  not  boasted." 

For  an  instant  the  two  men  watched  each  other  in 
momentous  silence,  as  two  wrestlers  each  seeking  to 
measure  the  other's  strength.  Then  Nehal  Singh 
raised  his  hand  in  dismissal. 

"It  is  well,  Englishman.  If  you  have  not  indeed 
boasted,  we  shall  meet  again." 

"We  shall  meet  again,  Rajah  Sahib." 

Nicholson  swung  round  on  his  heel.  The  crowd  be- 
hind him  fell  back,  and  with  a  rapid  step,  neither 
glancing  to  the  right  nor  left,  he  strode  out  of  the 
temple  into  the  fading  sunshine.  His  horse  was  still 
held  in  waiting,  and  he  mounted  instantly.  Erect  in 
his  saddle,  he  faced  the  frowning  multitude,  then  rode 
forward,  as  he  had  come,  without  haste,  holding  their 
passions  in  check  by  his  own  high,  fearless  bearing. 

The  highroad  was  empty  as  he  passed  through  the 
gates.  The  enemy  lay  behind.  He  set  spurs  to  his 
horse  and  galloped  headlong  toward  Marut. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

FACE  TO  FACE 

MRS.  CARMICHAEL  turned  up  the  light  with  a 
steady  hand.  Her  gaunt,  harsh  features  were  ex- 
pressionless. 

"Well,  what  news,  Captain  Nicholson?"  she  said. 
"You  can  say  it  outright.  I  am  not  afraid."  She 
turned  as  she  spoke  and  looked  around  her.  "Are 
your  nerves  strong  enough,  Mrs.  Berry?  If  not, 
pull  yourself  together.  We  can  only  die  once,  and 
there's  nothing  to  whimper  about." 

Mrs.  Berry,  who  sat  cowering  in  the  corner  of 
the  sofa,  lifted  her  grey  face.  The  clumsy  lips  tried 
to  move,  but  no  sound  came  forth  except  an  inar- 
ticulate murmur.  Mrs.  Carmichael  shrugged  her 
shoulders  as  one  does  at  an  irresponsible  child. 
"Well?"  she  repeated. 

Nicholson  came  farther  into  the  room,  so  that 
he  stood  within  the  circle  of  lamp-light.  In  a  rapid 
glance  he  had  taken  in  the  occupants,  and  their  at- 
titudes were  to  him  what  symptoms  are  to  a  quick- 
sighted  doctor.  Mrs.  Cary  sat  in  an  arm-chair,  bolt 
upright,  her  hands  clasped  before  her,  her  small 
eyes  fixed  straight  ahead."  Beatrice  stood  at  her 
side,  almost  in  an  attitude  of  protection,  pale,  but 
otherwise  calm  and  apparently  indifferent.  As  he 
had  entered,  'Lois  had  been  preparing  some  food  at 

350 


FACE  TO  FACE  351 

a  side  table.  She  now  came  closer,  and  her  dark, 
serious  eyes  rested  penetratingly  on  his  face,  so 
that  he  felt  that,  even  if  he  had  thought  of  deceiving 
them  as  to  the  true  state  of  affairs,  it  would  have 
been  in  vain  as  far  as  she  was  concerned.  As  for 
Mrs.  Carmichael,  she  stood  in  her  favorite  posi- 
tion— her  arms  akimbo,  her  chin  tilted  at  an  angle 
which  lent  her  whole  expression  something  bull- 
dog and  defiant.  The  atmosphere  of  danger  with 
which  the  little  drawing-room  was  filled  acted  dif- 
ferently upon  each  temperament,  but  upon  this 
typical  soldier's  wife  the  effect  was  to  arouse  in  her 
all  the  primitive  passions,  the  fighting  instinct,  the 
love  of  struggle  against  heavy  odds. 

"Come!"  she  exclaimed,  as  Nicholson  still  re- 
mained silent.  "Do  you  think,  because  one  or  two 
of  us  are  a  bit  'nervy',  that  we  are  really  afraid? 
Not  in  the  least.  For  my  part,  if  I've  got  to  die,  I 
shall  take  good  care  that  one  or  two  of  those  black 
heathen  come  with  me !"  She  flung  open  a  drawer, 
and,  taking  out  a  revolver,  thumped  it  energetically 
upon  the  table.  "Now  then,  Captain !" 

"My  dear  lady,  I  never  doubted  your  courage," 
Nicholson  answered,  "and  my  news  is  not  so  hope- 
less as  you  suppose.  I  spoke  with  Nehal  Singh." 
He  saw  Beatrice  start  and  glance  in  his  direction 
with  an  expression  of  sudden  suspense  in  her  fine 
eyes.  "What  he  said  left  me  no  option.  There 
could  be  no  idea  of  coming  to  terms.  At  the  same 
time  it  seems  that  he  has  no  desire  for  a  general 
massacre.  His  sole  ambition  is  to  drive  us  out  of 
the  country.  He  has  given  us  till  midnight  to  es- 
cape— those  who  want  to." 


352  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"Does  he  think  we  are  going  to  be  got  rid  of  as 
easily  as  that?"  Mrs.  Carmichael  broke  in.  "Do 
you  think  that  I  have  forgotten  those  months  when 
George  was  fighting  around  Marut?  Do  you  think 
I  have  forgotten  all  the  fine  fellows  that  laid  down 
their  lives  to  take  the  place  and  put  an  end  to  the 
disgrace  of  being  held  at  bay  by  a  horde  of  heathen? 
And  now  we  are  to  run  away  like  sheep?  Not  if 
George  listens  to  me!" 

"You  need  have  no  fear,"  Nicholson  answered. 
"Not  a  man  of  us  is  going  to  leave  Marut  alive.  But 
you  ladies — " 

"Well,  what  about  us  'ladies'?"  in  a  tone  as 
though  the  description  had  been  an  insult. 

"I  have  just  told  you — Nehal  Singh  gives  you 
till  midnight  to  get  away." 

Mrs.  Carmichael  snapped  her  lips  together  in  a 
straight,  uncompromising  line. 

"Very  much  obliged  to  His  Highness,  I'm  sure, 
but  I  stay  with  the  regiment,"  she  said. 

Nicholson  could  not  repress  a  smile  at  this  de- 
scription of  her  husband,  but  there  was  something 
more  than  amusement  in  his  brightening  eyes. 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Carmichael,  I  knew  that  would 
be  your  answer.  But  it  is  my  duty  to  ask  the  others 
— to  give  them  their  choice.  There  is  little  hope  for 
those  who  remain."  He  could  not  bring  himself 
to  turn  to  the  cowering  figure  upon  the  sofa.  There 
is  a  shame  which  is  not  personal,  and  he  was  pas- 
sionately ashamed  for  that  quivering  bulk  of  fear, 
for  that  greedy  hope  which  he  felt  rather  than  saw 
creep  up  into  the  livid  face.  He  looked  at  Lois. 
Her  head  was  lifted  and  the  fiery  enthusiasm  which 


FACE  TO  FACE  353 

spoke  out  of  every  line  of  the  small  dark  face  trans- 
formed her  from  a  saddened  woman  back  to  the  girl 
who  never  played  a  losing  game  but  she  won  it, 
point  by  point,  by  pluck  and  daring. 

"If  I  shan't  be  a  bother,  I  wish  to  stay  with  you 
all,"  she  said  with  studied  simplicity.  But  her  tone 
was  eloquent. 

"A  brave  comrade  is  always  welcome,"  he  an- 
swered. "Your  husband — "  He  hesitated,  and  then 
concluded  in  a  low  voice :  "Your  husband  offered 
to  go  with  you.  He  is  waiting  outside  with  the 
horses."  He  avoided  her  eyes,  but  her  tone  be- 
trayed to  him  the  pain  that  he  had  unwillingly 
caused  her. 

"Please  tell  Archie  that  I  will  not  let  him  sacri- 
fice himself  for  me.  I  know  that  he  will  wish  to 
remain,  and  I,  too,  wish  to  remain.  We  are  all 
English,  and  who  knows  how  little  or  how  much 
we  are  all  to  blame  for  this  disaster?  We  must 
share  it  together." 

Something  like  a  sigh  of  relief  passed  Nicholson's 
compressed  lips,  but  he  said  nothing.  In  duty 
bound,  he  dared  not  offer  encouragement  nor  plead 
for  the  fulfilment  of  his  hopes.  With  mixed  feel- 
ings he  turned  to  Beatrice.  Possessed  as  he  now 
was  of  all  the  details  of  her  conduct,  he  could  not 
but  lay  at  her  door  the  consequences  of  a  frivolous 
and  heartless  action.  But  her  pitiless  self-denun- 
ciation at  the  meeting,  her  present  quiet  and  dig- 
nity, subdued  in  him  all  scorn  and  anger.  Courage 
saluted  courage  as  their  eyes  met. 

"And  you,  Miss  Cary?" 

"Lois  has  already  answered  for  me,"  she  said. 


354  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"If  there  was  any  justice  in  this  world,  I  alone 
should  suffer ;  but  one  can  never  suffer  alone,  it 
seems.  The  least  I  can  do  is  to  stand  by  you  all." 
Her  tone  revealed  all  the  remorse  and  suffering  of 
which  human  nature  is  capable.  It  stirred  in  him 
a  sudden  impulsive  pity.  He  crossed  the  room 
with  outstretched  hand. 

"You  are  a  brave  woman." 

She  smiled  bitterly,  but  the  color  rushed  to  her 
cheeks. 

"Thank  you.  You  have  paid  me  the  only  com- 
pliment for  which  I  care.  But  it  is  a  small  thing 
to  take  one's  punishment  without  crying.  After 
all,  death  isn't  the  worst." 

She  saw  him  glance  doubtfully  at  her  mother, 
and  she  bent  down  to  the  frozen  face,  speaking  now 
gently  but  distinctly,  as  though  to  a  suffering  in- 
valid whose  ears  had  been  dulled  with  pain. 

"Mother,  what  do  you  want  to  do?  There  is  still 
time — and  Captain  Nicholson  says  there  is  no  hope 
for  those  who  remain.  You  must  not  be  influenced 
by  my  choice." 

Mrs.  Gary  looked  up  into  her  daughter's  face  with 
a  perplexed  frown.  She  seemed  scarcely  to  have 
heard  what  had  been  said  to  her,  not  even  to  have 
been  aware  that  any  escape  was  possible.  She  felt 
for  Beatrice's  hand,  and  taking  it  in  her  own, 
stroked  it  with  pathetic  helplessness. 

"A  bad  mother!"  she  said  absently.  "Well,  per- 
haps I  was.  Yes,  no  doubt — and  you  think  so,  too, 
though  you  never  said  anything.  It  was  always 
position  I  wanted.  Now  it's  all  gone.  What  is  it,  dear  ? 


FACE  TO  FACE  355 

Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that  ?  I  haven't  said  what 
I  oughtn't,  have  I  ?" 

"No,  no.  Only  Captain  Nicholson  wants  to  know 
— will  you  stay  or  go  ?  We  could  get  some  of  the  ser- 
vants to  go  with  you.  You  will  be  safe  then." 

Mrs.  Cary  shook  her  head. 

"Are  you — what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

A  childish  smile  twisted  the  heavy  face. 

"I'd  like  to  stay  with  you,  Beaty.  We  have  al- 
ways stuck  together,  haven't  we?"  She  lay  back 
with  her  head  against  Beatrice's  shoulder.  "You 
always  were  so  clever,  Beaty — I'm  sure  it  will  be 
all  right.  You'll  see  your  poor  mother  through." 
The  eyelids  sank ;  she  dropped  into  a  drowse  of  com- 
plete mental  and  physical  breakdown,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment no  one  spoke.  Mrs.  Carmichael  had  shifted 
from  her  defiant  attitude,  and  her  hard,  set  face  ex- 
pressed a  grim  satisfaction  not  unmixed  with  pity. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Berry,  what  about  you?"  she  said. 
"Captain  Nicholson  has  wasted  enough  time  with 
you  women.  You  must  make  up  your  mind — if 
you've  got  one,"  she  concluded,  in  a  smothered 
undertone. 

Mrs.  Berry  drew  herself  up  from  her  cowering  posi- 
tion. Her  teeth  were  still  chattering  with  terror, 
but  Nicholson  saw  that  the  crisis  of  panic  was  over. 
There  was  a  curious  look  of  obstinate  resolve  on 
the  usually  weak  and  silly  face. 

"If  all  the  men  are  remaining,  I  suppose  my  hus- 
band remains,  too?"  she  asked. 

"Yes;  he  is  helping  Colonel  Carmichael  with  the 
defenses." 


356  THE  NATIVE  BOKN 

Wonderful  indeed  are  the  volte-faces  of  which  a 
character  is  capable !  Nicholson,  to  whom  human 
nature  was  a  book  of  revelations,  watched  with  a 
sense  almost  of  awe  this  mean,  petty  and  brainless 
woman,  who  a  moment  before  had  been  whimper- 
ing with  fear,  smooth  out  her  skirts  and  arrange 
her  hair  as  though  death  were  not  sitting  at  her  el- 
bow. 

"I  am  sure,"  she  said,  in  a  sharp  voice  which  still 
trembled,  "I  can  do  what  Mrs.  Gary  can  do.  I  shall 
stay — please  tell  Percy  so,  with  my  love.  And  I 
should  like  to  see  him  if  possible  before  the  end." 

Nicholson  bowed  to  her,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  their  acquaintance  the  salute  had  a  genuine  sig- 
nificance. 

"I  am  proud  to  have  such  countrywomen!"  he 
said,  and  then  added  in  a  low  tone  as  he  passed 
Lois:  "The  cathedral  is  nearly  finished." 

She  nodded. 

"It  could  not  have  been  better  finished,"  she  said 
bravely.  "And  you  see  I  was  right — when  there 
is  a  noble  building  in  the  midst  of  them,  people  grow 
ashamed  of  their  mud-huts.  They  pull  them  down 
and  begin  their  own  cathedrals — even  when  it  is 
too  late." 

His  eyes  wandered  instinctively  toward  the  woman 
on  the  couch. 

"Yes,  you  were  quite  right."  He  went  to  the 
curtained  doorway,  where  he  found  Mrs.  Carmi- 
chael  waiting  for  him,  a  quaint  figure  enough  with 
her  sleeves  rolled  back,  her  skirts  tucked  up  above 
her  ankles,  the  revolver  stuck  brigand-wise  in  her 
belt. 


FACE  TO  FACE  357 

"I'm  coming  with  you,"  she  said  coolly.  "I  can 
shoot  as  straight  as  most  of  you,  and  a  good  deal 
better  than  George.  I  might  be  of  some  use." 

"You  would  be  of  use  anywhere,"  he  returned 
sincerely,  "but,  if  I  may  say  so,  you  will  be  of 
more  use  here.  Your  courage  will  help  the  others. 
As  for  us,  we  have  fifty  of  my  Gurkhas,  and  they 
will  do  all  that  can  be  done.  I  will  let  you  know 
what  is  happening.  At  present  you  are  safest  here." 

She  sighed. 

"Very  well.  And  if  any  one  is  hurt,  send  him  around 
I  have  plenty  of  bandages." 

"Yes,  of  course." 

It  was  a  merely  formal  offer  and  acceptance.  Both 
knew  that  it  would  be  scarcely  worth  while  to  ban- 
dage men  already  in  their  full  health  and  strength 
marked  out  for  death.  Nicholson  went  out,  closing 
the  door  after  him,  and  once  more  an  absolute  stoic 
silence  fell  upon  the  little  company.  In  moments 
of  crisis,  it  is  the  strict  adherence  to  the  habits  of 
a  lifetime  which  keeps  the  mind  clear  and  the  nerve 
firm.  Lois  went  on  quietly  preparing  some  sand- 
wiches, which  in  all  probability  would  never  be 
eaten,  and  Mrs.  Carmichael  resigned  martial  occu- 
pation for  the  cutting-out  of  a  baby's  pinafore  for 
an  East-end  child  whom  she  had  under  her  special 
patronage.  But  her  mind  was  active  and,  stern, 
self-opinionated  martinet  that  she  was,  she  could  not 
altogether  crush  the  regrets  that  swarmed  up  in 
this  last  reckoning  up  of  her  life's  activity.  Better 
had  her  charity  and  interest  been  centered  on  the 
dirty  little  children  whom  she  had  indignantly  tol- 
erated on  her  compound !  Better  for  them  all  would 


358  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

it  have  been  had  each  one  of  them  sought  to  win 
the  love  and  respect  of  the  subject  race!  Then, 
perhaps,  they  would  not  have  been  deserted  in  this 
last  hour  of  peril. 

Mrs.  Carmichael  glanced  at  Beatrice  Gary  with  a 
fresh  pricking  of  conscience.  What,  after  all,  had  she 
done  to  deserve  the  chief  condemnation?  She  had 
played  with  fire.  Had  they  not  all  played  with  fire? 
She  had  looked  upon  a  native  as  a  toy  fit  to  play  with, 
to  break  and  throw  away.  Did  they  not  all,  behind  their 
seeming  tolerance  and  Christian  principles,  hide  an 
equal  depreciation?  Was  she  even  as  bad  as  some? 
How  many  men  revealed  to  their  syces  their  darkest 
moods,  their  lowest  passions  ?  How  many  women  were 
to  their  ayahs  subjects  for  contemptuous  Bazaar  gos- 
sip. They  were  all  to  blame,  and  this  was  the  harvest, 
the  punishment  for  the  neglect  of  a  heavy  responsi- 
bility. The  thought  that  she  had  been  unjust  was 
iron  through  Mrs.  Carmichael's  soul,  for  above  all 
things  she  prided  herself  on  her  fairness.  She  pushed 
her  work  away  and  went  over  to  Beatrice's  side. 
Mrs.  Gary's  head  still  rested  against  the  aching 
shoulder,  and  Mrs.  Carmichael  made  a  sign  to  let 
her  improvize  a  cushion  substitute.  Beatrice  shook  her 
head. 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  whispered,  glancing  down 
at  the  flushed,  sleeping  face.  "We  have  done  each 
other  so  little  real  service  that  I  am  glad  to  be  able 
to  do  even  this  much.  I  don't  suppose  it  will  be  for 
long.  How  quiet  everything  is!" 

Mrs.  Carmichael  looked  at  the  clock  on  the  writ- 
ing-table. 

"It  is  not  yet  midnight,"  she  said.    "Probably  the 


FACE  TO  FACE  359 

Rajah  is  keeping  his  promise."  Her  expression  re- 
laxed a  little.  "Don't  tire  yourself,"  she  added 
bruskly  to  Mrs.  Berry,  who  had  been  fanning  the  un- 
conscious woman's  face  with  an  improvized  paper  fan. 
"I  don't  think  she  feels  the  heat." 

The  missionary's  wife  continued  her  good  work 
with  redoubled  energy.  It  was  perhaps  one  of  the 
few  really  unselfish  things  which  she  had  ever  done 
in  the  course  of  a  pious  but  fundamentally  selfish 
life,  and  it  gave  her  pleasure  and  courage.  The  knowl- 
edge that  some  one  was  weaker  than  herself  and 
needed  her  was  new  strength  to  her  new-born  heroism. 

"It  is  so  frightfully  hot,"  she  said  half  apologeti- 
cally. "Why  isn't  the  punkah-man  at  work?" 

"The  'punkah-man'  has  bolted  with  the  rest  of 
them,"  Mrs.  Carmichael  answered.  "I  dare  say  I 
could  work  it,  though  I  have  never  tried." 

"It  is  hardly  worth  while  to  begin  now,"  Bea- 
trice observed,  and  this  simple  acknowledgment  that 
the  end  was  at  hand  received  no  contradiction. 

Once  again  the  silence  was  unbroken,  save  for 
the  soft  swish  of  the  fan  and  Mrs.  Gary's  heavy,  ir- 
regular breathing.  Yet  the  five  women  who  in  the 
full  swing  of  their  life  had  been  diametrically  op- 
posed to  one  another  were  now  united  in  a  common 
sympathy.  Death,  far  more  than  a  leveler  of  class, 
is  the  melting-pot  into  which  are  thrown  all  antag- 
onisms, all  violent  discords  of  character.  The  one 
great  fact  overshadows  everything,  and  the  petty 
stumbling-blocks  of  daily  life  are  forgotten.  More 
than  that  still — it  is  the  supreme  moment  in  man's 
existence  when  the  innermost  treasures  or  unsus- 
pected hells  are  revealed  beyond  all  denial.  And  in 


360  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

these  five  women,  hidden  in  two  cases  at  least  be- 
neath a  mass  of  meanness,  selfishness  and  indiffer- 
ence, there  lay  an  unusual  power  of  self-sacrifice 
and  pity.  Death  was  drawing  near  to  them  all,  and 
their  one  thought  was  how  to  make  his  coming 
easier  for  the  other.  When  the  silence  grew  un- 
bearable, it  was  Mrs.  Carmichael  who  had  the  cour- 
age to  break  it  with  a  trivial  criticism  respecting 
the  manner  in  which  Lois  was  making  the  sand- 
wiches. 

"You  should  put  the  butter  on  before  you  cut 
them,"  she  said  tartly,  "and  as  little  as  possible. 
I'm  quite  sure  it  has  gone  rancid,  and  then  George 
won't  touch  them.  He  is  so  fussy  about  the  butter." 

Mrs.  Berry  looked  up.  The  perspiration  of  physi- 
cal fear  stood  on  her  cold  forehead,  but  her  roused 
will-power  fought  heroically  and  conquered. 

"And,  please,  would  you  mind  making  one  or 
two  without  butter?"  she  said.  "Percy  says  all  In- 
dian butter  is  bad.  Of  course,  it's  only  an  idea  of 
his,  but  men  are  such  faddy  creatures,  don't  you 
think?" 

"They  wouldn't  be  men  if  they  weren't — "  Mrs. 
Carmichael  had  begun,  when  she  broke  off,  and  the 
scissors  that  had  been  snipping  their  way  steadily 
through  the  rough  linen  jagged  and  dropped  on  the 
table.  She  picked  them  up  immediately  and  went 
on  with  an  impatient  exclamation  at  her  own  care- 
lessness. But  the  involuntary  start  had  coincided 
with  a  loud  report  from  outside  in  the  darkness, 
and  a  smothered  scream. 

Lois  put  down  her  knife. 

"Won't  you  come  and  help  me?"  she  said  to  Bea- 


FACE  TO  FACE  361 

trice.  "Your  mother  will  not  notice  that  you  have 
gone." 

Beatrice  nodded,  and  letting  the  heavy  head  sink 
back  among  the  cushions,  came  over  to  Lois'  side. 

"How  brave  you  are !"  she  said  in  a  whisper. 
"You  seem  so  cool  and  collected,  just  as  though 
you  believed  your  sandwiches  would  ever  be  eaten  !" 

"I  am  not  braver  than  you  are.  Look  how  steady 
your  hand  is — much  steadier  than  mine." 

Beatrice  held  out  her  white  hand  and  studied  it 
thoughtfully. 

"I  am  not  afraid,"  she  said,  "but  not  because  I 
am  brave.  There  is  no  room  for  fear,  that  is  all." 
She  paused  an  instant,  and  then  suddenly  the  hand 
fell  on  Lois'.  The  two  women  looked  at  each  other. 
"Lois,  I  am  so  sorry." 

"For  me?" 

"For  you  and  every  one.  I  have  hurt  so  many. 
It  has  all  been  my  fault.  I  would  give  ten  lives  if 
I  had  them  to  see  the  harm  undone.  But  that  isn't 
possible.  Oh,  Lois,  there  is  surely  nothing  worse 
than  helpless  remorse !" 

The  hand  within  her  own  tightened  in  its  clasp. 

"Is  it  ever  helpless,  though?" 

"I  can't  give  the  dead  life — I  can't  give  back  a 
man's  faith,  can  I?" 

The  light  of  understanding  deepened  in  Lois' 
eyes. 

"Beatrice — I  believe  I  know!" 

"Yes,  I  see  you  do.  Do  you  despise  me?  What 
does  it  matter  if  you  do?  It  has  been  my  fear  of 
the  world  and  its  opinion  that  helped  to  lead  me 
wrong.  Isn't  it  a  just  punishment?  I  have  ruined 


362  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

both  our  lives.  Lois,  I  couldn't  help  hearing  what 
Captain  Nicholson  said  to  you.  It  explained  what 
you  said  to  me  about  building  on  the  ruins  of  the 
past.  That  was  what  he  did — he  built  a  beautiful 
palace  on  me — and  I  wrecked  it.  I  failed  him." 

"Have  you  really  failed  him?" 

"Lois,  I  don't  know — I  am  beginning  to  believe 
not.  But  it  is  too  late.  I  meant  to  clear  away  the 
rubbish — and  build.  But  there  is  no  time." 

"You  have  done  your  best." 

"Oh,  if  I  could  only  save  him,  Lois!  He  was 
the  first  man  I  had  ever  met  whom  I  trusted,  the 
first  to  trust  me.  I  owe  him  everything,  the  little 
that  is  good  in  me.  It  had  to  come  to  life  when  he 
believed  in  it  so  implicitly.  And  he  owes  me  ruin, 
outward  and  inward  ruin." 

Lois  made  no  answer.  With  a  warm,  impulsive 
gesture  she  put  her  arms  about  the  taller  woman's 
neck  and,  drawing  the  beautiful  face  down  to  her 
own,  kissed  her.  Beatrice  responded,  and  thus  a 
friendship  was  sealed — not  for  life  but  for  death, 
whose  grim  cordon  was  with  every  moment  being 
drawn  closer  about  them. 

The  sound  of  firing  had  now  grown  incessant. 
One  report  followed  another  at  swift,  irregular  in- 
tervals, and  each  sounded  like  a  clap  of  thunder  in 
the  silent  room.  Mrs.  Gary  stirred  uneasily  in  her 
sleep,  a  low,  scarcely  audible  groan  escaped  the 
parted  lips,  as  though  even  in  her  dreams  she  was 
being  pursued  by  fear's  pitiless  phantom.  Her  self- 
appointed  nurse  continued  to  fan  her  with  the  en- 
ergy of  despair,  the  poor  livid  face  twitching  at 
every  fresh  threatening  sound.  Mrs.  Carmichael 


FACE  TO  FACE  363 

still  pretended  to  be  absorbed  in  her  pinafore,  but 
the  revolver  lay  on  the  table,  ready  to  hand,  and 
there  was  a  look  in  the  steady  eyes  which  boded  ill 
for  the  first  enemy  who  should  confront  her.  Lois 
and  Beatrice  continued  their  fruitless  task. 

A  woman's  courage  is  the  supreme  victory  of  mind 
over  matter.  It  is  no  easy  thing  for  a  hero  to  sit 
still  and  helpless  while  death  rattles  his  bullet  fin- 
gers against  the  walls  and  screams  in  voices  of  hate 
and  fury  from  a  distance  which  every  minute  dimin- 
ishes. For  a  woman  burdened  with  the  disability  of  a 
high-strung  nervous  system,  it  is  a  martyrdom.  Yet 
these  women,  brought  up  on  the  froth  of  an  ener- 
vating, pleasure-seeking  society,  held  out — held  out 
with  a  martyr's  courage  and  constancy — against  the 
torture  of  inactivity,  of  an  imagination  which  pene- 
trated the  sheltering  walls  out  into  the  night  where 
fifty  men  writhed  in  a  death-struggle  with  hundreds 
— saw  every  bleeding  wound,  heard  every  smoth- 
ered moan  of  pain,  felt  already  the  cold  iron  pierce 
their  own  breasts.  The  hours  passed,  and  they  did 
not  yield.  They  had  ceased  from  their  incongru- 
ous tasks,  and  stood  and  waited,  wordless  and  tear- 
less. 

As  the  first  grey  lights  of  dawn  crept  into  the 
stifling  room  they  heard  footsteps  hurrying  across 
the  adjacent  room,  and  each  drew  herself  upright 
to  meet  the  end.  Mrs.  Carmichael's  hand  tightened 
over  the  revolver,  but  it  was  only  Mr.  Berry  who 
entered.  The  little  missionary,  a  shy,  society-shun- 
ning  man,  noted  for  doing  more  harm  than  good 
among  the  natives  by  his  zealous  bigotry  and  ig- 
norance of  their  prejudices,  stood  revealed  in  a  new 


364  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

light.  His  face  was  grimed  with  dirt  and  powder, 
his  clothes  disordered,  his  weak  eyes  bright  with 
the  fire  of  battle. 

"Do  not  be  afraid,"  he  said  quickly.  "There  is 
no  immediate  danger.  I  have  only  been  sent  to 
warn  you  to  be  ready  to  leave  the  bungalow.  The 
front  wall  is  shot-riddled,  and  the  place  may  be- 
come indefensible  at  any  moment.  When  that  time 
comes,  you  must  slip  out  to  the  old  bungalow.  Nich- 
olson believes  he  can  hold  out  there." 

"My  husband — ?"  interrupted  Mrs.  Carmichael. 

"Your  husband  is  safe.  In  fact,  all  three  were 
well  when  I  left.  If  I  wasn't  against  such  things, 
I  should  say  it  was  a  splendid  fight — and  every 
man  a  hero.  The  Rajah — " 

"The  Rajah—?" 

Mr.  Berry  looked  in  stern  surprise  at  the  pale 
face  of  the  speaker. 

"The  Rajah  has  a  charmed  life,"  he  said  somber- 
ly. "He  is  always  in  the  front  of  his  men — we  can 
recognize  him  by  his  dress  and  figure — he  is  always 
within  range,  but  we  can't  hit  him.  Not  that  I 
ought  to  wish  his  death,  though  it's  our  only 
chance."  He  put  his  hands  distractedly  to  his  head. 
"Heaven  knows,  it's  too  hard  for  a  Christian  man! 
Every  time  I  see  an  enemy  fall,  I  rejoice — and  then 
I  remember  that  it  is  my  brother — "  He  stopped, 
the  expression  on  his  face  of  profound  trouble  giv- 
ing way  to  active  alarm.  "Hush !  Some  one  is  com- 
ing!"  ' 

A  second  time  the  door  opened,  and  Travers 
rushed  in.  Lois  saw  his  face,  and  something  in  her 
recoiled  in  sick  disgust.  Fear,  an  almost  imbecilic 


FACE  TO  FACE  365 

fear,  was  written  on  the  wide-open,  staring  eyes, 
and  the  hand  that  held  the  revolver  trembled  like  that 
of  an  old  man. 

"Quick — out  by  the  back  way!"  he  stammered 
incoherently.  "I  will  lock  the  door — so.  That  will 
keep  them  off  a  minute.  They  are  bound  to  look 
for  us  here  first.  Nicholson  is  retiring  with  his 
men — they  are  going  to  have  a  try  to  bring  down 
the  Rajah.  It's  our  one  chance.  It  may  frighten 
the  devils — they  think  he's  a  god.  I  believe  he  is, 
curse  him!"  All  the  time,  he  had  been  piling  fur- 
niture against  the  door  with  a  mad  and  feverish 
energy.  "Help  me !  Help  me !"  he  screamed.  "Why 
don't  you  help?  Do  you  want  to  be  killed  like 
sheep?" 

Lois  drew  him  back  by  the  arm. 

"You  are  wasting  time,"  she  said  firmly.  "Come 
with  us  !  Why,  you  are  hurt !" 

He  looked  at  the  thin  stream  which  trickled  down  the 
soiled  white  of  his  coat.  A  silly  smile  nickered  over 
his  big  face. 

"Oh,  yes,  a  scratch.  I  hardly  feel  it.  It  isn't 
anything.  It  can't  be  anything.  There's  nothing 
vital  thereabouts,  is  there,  Berry?" 

The  missionary  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  had 
flung  open  the  glass  doors  which  led  on  to  the  veran- 
dah, and  the  brightening  dawn  flooded  in  upon 
them. 

"Come  and  help  me  carry  this  poor  lady,"  he 
said.  "We  have  not  a  minute  to  lose." 

Travers  tried  to  obey,  but  he  had  no  strength, 
and  the  other  thrust  him  impatiently  on  one  side. 

"Mrs.  Carmichael,  you  are  a  strong  woman,"  he 


366  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

appealed.  Between  them  they  managed  to  bring 
Mrs.  Gary's  heavy,  unconscious  frame  down  the 
steps.  It  was  a  nerve-trying  task,  for  their  progress 
was  of  necessity  a  slow  one,  and  the  sound  of  the 
desperate  fighting  seemed  to  surround  them  on 
every  side.  It  was  with  a  feeling  of  intense  relief 
that  the  little  party  saw  Nicholson  appear  from 
amidst  the  trees  and  run  toward  them. 

"That's  right!"  he  cried.  "Only  be  quick!  They 
are  at  us  on  all  sides  now,  but  my  men  are  keeping 
them  off  until  you  are  out  of  the  bungalow.  The 
old  ruin  at  the  back  of  the  garden  is  our  last  stand. 
Carmichael  is  there  already  with  a  detachment,  and 
is  keeping  off  a  rear  attack.  I  shall  remain  here." 

"Alone?"  Berry  asked  anxiously. 

"Yes.  I  believe  they  will  ransack  the  bungalow 
first.  When  they  come,  the  Rajah  is  sure  to  be  at 
their  head,  and —  well,  it's  going  to  be  diamond  cut 
diamond  between  us  two  when  we  meet.  I  know 
the  beggars  and  their  superstition.  If  I  get  in  the 
first  shot,  they  will  bolt.  If  he  does — " 

"You  are  going  to  shoot  him  down  like  a  rat  in 
a  trap !"  Beatrice  burst  out  passionately. 

The  others  had  already  hurried  on.  With  a  gentle 
force  he  urged  her  to  follow  them. 

"Or  be  shot  down  myself,"  he  said.  "Leave  me 
to  do  my  duty  as  I  think  best." 

She  met  his  grave  eyes  defiantly,  but  perhaps 
some  instinct  told  her  that  he  was  risking  his  life 
for  a  poor  chance — for  their  last  chance,  for  with- 
out a  word  she  turned  away,  apparently  in  the  di- 
rection which  her  companions  had  already  taken. 

As  soon  as  she  was  out  of  sight,  Nicholson  re- 


FACE  TO  FACE  367 

charged  his  smoking  revolver,  and  stood  there  quiet- 
ly waiting.  His  trained  ear  heard  the  firing  in  front 
of  the  bungalow  cease.  He  knew  then  that  his  men 
were  retiring  to  join  Colonel  Carmichael,  and  that 
he  stood  alone,  the  last  barrier  between  death  and 
those  he  loved.  The  sound  of  triumphant  shout- 
ing drew  nearer;  he  heard  the  wrenching  and  tear- 
ing of  doors  crashing  down  before  an  impetuous 
onslaught,  the  cling  of  steel,  a  howl  of  sudden  sat- 
isfaction. His  hand  tightened  upon  his  revolver ; 
he  stood  ready  to  meet  his  enemy  single-handed, 
to  fight  out  the  duel  between  man  and  man.  But 
no  one  came.  A  bewildering  silence  had  followed 
upon  the  last  bloodthirsty  cry.  It  was  as  though 
the  hand  of  death  had  fallen  and  with  one  anni- 
hilating blow  beaten  down  the  approaching  horde 
in  the  high  tide  of  their  victory.  But  of  the  two 
this  strange  stillness  was  the  more  terrible.  It  pen- 
etrated to  the  little  waiting  group  in  the  old  bun- 
galow and  filled  them  with  the  chill  horror  of  the 
unknown.  Something  had  happened — that  they 
felt. 

Lois  crept  to  the  doorway  and  peered  out  into 
the  gathering  daylight.  Here  and  there,  half  hid- 
den behind  the  shelter  of  the  trees,  she  could  see 
the  khaki-clad  figures  of  the  Gurkhas,  some  kneel- 
ing, some  standing,  their  rifles  raised  to  their  dark 
faces,  waiting  like  statues  for  the  enemy  that  never 
came.  A  dead,  petrified  world,  the  only  living  thing 
the  sunshine,  which  played  in  peaceful  indifference 
upon  the  scene  of  an  old  and  a  new  tragedy!  Lois 
thought  of  her  mother.  By  the  power  of  an  over- 
wrought imagination  she  looked  back  through  a 


368  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

quarter  of  a  century  to  a  day  of  which  this  present 
was  a  strange  and  horrible  repetition.  For  a  mo- 
ment she  lived  her  mother's  life,  lived  through  the 
hours  of  torturing  doubt  and  fear,  and  when  a 
stifled  cry  called  her  back  to  the  reality  and  forced 
her  to  turn  from  the  sunlight  to  the  dark  room,  it 
was  as  though  the  dead  had  risen,  as  though  her 
dreams  had  taken  substance.  She  saw  pale  faces 
staring  at  her;  she  saw  on  the  rusty  truckle-bed  a 
figure  which  rose  up  and  held  out  frantic,  desperate 
arms  toward  her.  But  it  was  no  dream — no  phan- 
tom. Mrs.  Gary,  wild-eyed  and  distraught,  strug- 
gled to  rise  to  her  feet  and  come  toward  her. 

"Where  is  Beatrice?"  she  cried  hysterically. 
"Where  is  Beatrice?  I  dreamed  she  was  dead! — It 
isn't  true  !  Say  it  isn't  true !" 

Lois  hurried  back.  In  the  confusion  of  their  re- 
treat she  had  lost  sight  of  Beatrice,  and  now  a  cold 
fear  froze  her  blood.  She  called  her  name,  adding 
her  voice  to  the  half-delirious  mother's  appeal ;  but 
there  was  no  answer,  and  as  she  prepared  to  leave 
the  shelter  of  the  bungalow  to  go  in  search  of  the 
lost  girl,  a  pair  of  strong  hands  grasped  her  by  the 
shoulders  and  forced  her  back. 

"Lois,  stand  back!    They  are  coming!" 

Colonel  Carmiachael  thrust  her  behind  him,  and 
an  instant  later  she  heard  the  report  of  his  revol- 
ver. There  was  no  answering  volley.  A  dark,  scan- 
tily-clad figure  sprang  through  the  trees,  waving 
one  hand  as  though  in  imperative  appeal. 

"Don't  fire— don't  fire !    It's  me !" 

The  Colonel's  still  smoking  revolver  sank,  and 
the  supposed  native  swayed  toward  him,  only  to 


FACE  TO  FACE  369 

sink  a  few  yards  farther  on  to  the  ground.  Car- 
michael  ran  to  his  side  and  lifted  the  fainting  head 
against  his  shoulder. 

"Good  God,  Geoffries!  Don't  say  I've  hit  you! 
How  on  earth  was  I  to  know!" 

"That's  all  right,  Colonel.  Only  winded — don't 
you  know — never  hurried  so  much  in  life.  Have 
been  in  the  midst  of  the  beggars — just  managed  to 
slip  through.  O  Lor',  give  me  something  to  drink, 
will  you?"  Colonel  Carmichael  put  his  flask  to  the 
parched  and  broken  lips.  "Thanks,  that's  better. 
We  got  your  message,  and  are  coming  on  like  fun. 
The  regiment's  only  an  hour  off.  You  never  saw 
Saunders  in  such  a  fluster — it's  his  first  big  job,  you 
know."  He  took  another  deep  draft,  and  wiped 
his  mouth  with  the  corner  of  his  ragged  tunic.  "I 
say — don't  look  at  me,  Miss  Lois.  I'm  not  fit  to  be 
seen."  He  laughed  hoarsely.  "These  clothes 
weren't  made  in  Bond  Street,  and  Webb  assured 
me  that  the  fewer  I  had  the  more  genuine  I  looked. 
I  say,  Colonel,  this  is  a  lively  business !" 

Colonel  Carmichael  nodded  as  he  helped  the 
gasping  and  exhausted  man  into  the  bungalow. 

"Too  lively  to  be  talked  about,"  he  said.  "I  doubt 
if  the  regiment  isn't  going  to  add  itself  to  the  gen- 
eral disaster." 

"Oh,  rot !"  was  the  young  officer's  forgetful  lapse 
into  disrespect.  "The  regiment  will  do  for  the  beg- 
gars all  right.  They  didn't  expect  us  so  soon,  I  fan- 
cy. Just  listen!  I  believe  I've  frightened  them 
away  already.  There  isn't  a  sound." 

Colonel  Carmichael  lifted  his  head.  True  enough, 
no  living  thing  seemed  to  move.  A  profound  hush 


370  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

hung  in  the  air,  broken  only  by  Mrs.  Gary's  pitiful 
meanings. 

"Oh,  Beatrice,  Beatrice,  where  are  you?" 

Geoffries  turned  his  stained  face  to  the  Colonel's. 

"Beatrice!  That's  Miss  Gary,  isn't  it?  Anything 
happened  to  her?" 

Colonel  Carmichael  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  the 
impatience  of  a  man  whose  nerves  are  overstrained  by 
anxiety. 

"I  don't  know — we've  lost  her,"  he  said.  "We  must 
do  something  at  once.  Heaven  alone  knows  what  has 
happened." 

No  one  indeed  knew  what  had  happened — not  even 
the  lonely  man  who  waited,  revolver  in  hand,  for  the 
final  encounter  on  whose  issue  hung  the  fortunes  of 
them  all. 

Only  one  knew,  and  that  was  Beatrice  herself  as  she 
stood  before  the  shattered  doorway  of  the  Colonel's 
drawing-room,  amidst  the  debris  of  wrecked,  shot-rid- 
dled furniture,  face  to  face  with  Nehal  Singh. 


CHAPTER  IX 

HALF-LIGHT 

ONCE  before  she  had  placed  herself  in  his  path, 
trusting  to  her  skill,  her  daring,  above  all,  her  beauty. 
With  laughter  in  her  heart  and  cold-blooded  coquetry 
she  had  chosen  out  the  spot  before  the  altar  where  the 
sunlight  struck  burnished  gold  from  her  waving  hair 
and  lent  deeper,  softening  shades  to  her  eyes.  With 
cruel  satisfaction,  not  unmixed  with  admiration,  she 
had  seen  her  power  successful  and  the  awe-struck 
wonder  and  veneration  creep  into  his  face.  In  the  si- 
lence and  peace  of  the  temple  she  had  plunged  reck- 
less hands  into  the  woven  threads  of  his  life.  Amidst 
the  shriek  of  war,  face  to  face  with  death,  she  sought 
to  save  him.  It  was  another  woman  who  stood  op- 
posite the  yielding,  cracking  door,  past  whose  head  a 
half-spent  bullet  spat  its  way,  burying  itself  in  the 
wall  behind  her, — another  woman,  disheveled,  for- 
getful of  her  wan  beauty,  trusting  to  no  power  but 
that  which  her  heart  gave  her  to  face  the  man  she 
had  betrayed  and  ruined.  Yet  both  in  an  instantaneous 
flash  remembered  that  first  meeting.  The  drawn 
sword  sank,  point  downward.  He  stood  motionless 
in  the  shattered  doorway,  holding  out  a  hand  which 
commanded,  and  obtained,  a  petrified,  waiting  silence 
from  the  armed  horde  whose  faces  glared  hatred  and 
the  lust  of  slaughter  in  the  narrow  space  behind. 

371 


372  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

Whatever  had  been  his  resolution,  whatever  the  de- 
testation and  contempt  which  had  filled  him,  all  sank 
now  into  an  ocean  of  reborn  pain. 

"Why  are  you  here  ?"  he  asked  sternly.  "Why  have 
you  not  fled?" 

"We  are  all  here,"  she  answered.  "None  of  us  has 
fled.  Did  you  not  know  that?" 

He  looked  about  him.  A  flash  of  scorn  rekindled 
in  his  somber  eyes. 

"You  are  alone.    Have  they  deserted  you  ?" 

"They  do  not  know  that  I  am  here.  I  crept  back  of 
my  own  free  will — to  speak  with  you,  Nehal." 

Both  hands  clasped  upon  his  sword-hilt,  erect,  a 
proud  figure  of  misfortune,  he  stood  there  and  studied 
her,  half-wonderingly,  half-contemptuously.  The  rest- 
less forces  at  his  back  were  forgotten.  They  were  no 
more  to  him  than  the  pawns  with  which  his  will  played 
life  and  death.  He  was  their  god  and  their  faith. 
They  waited  for  his  word  to  sweep  out  of  his  path 
the  white-faced  Englishwoman  who  held  him  checked 
in  the  full  course  of  his  victory.  But  he  did  not  speak 
to  them,  but  to  her,  in  a  low  voice  in  which  scorn 
still  trembled. 

"You  are  here,  no  doubt,  to  intercede  for  those 
others — or  for  yourself.  You  see,  I  have  learned  some- 
thing in  these  two  years.  It  is  useless.  No  one  can 
stop  me  now." 

"No  one?" 

He  smiled,  and  for  the  first  time  she  saw  a  sneer 
disfigure  his  lips. 

"Not  even  you,  Miss  Gary.  You  have  done  a  great 
deal  with  me — enough  perhaps  to  justify  your  wildest 
hopes — but  you  have  touched  the  limits  of  your  powers 


HALF-LIGHT  373 

and  of  my  gullibility.  Or  did  you  think  there  were  no 
limits  ?" 

"I  do  not  recognize  you  when  you  talk  like  that!" 
she  exclaimed. 

"That  is  surprising,  seeing  that  you  have  made  me 
what  I  am,"  he  answered.  Then  he  made  a  quick 
gesture  of  apology.  "Forgive  me,  that  sounded  like 
a  reproach  or  a  complaint.  I  make  neither.  That  is 
not  my  purpose." 

"And  yet  you  have  the  right,"  she  said,  drawing  a 
deep  breath,  "you  have  every  right,  Nehal.  It  does  not 
matter  what  the  others  did  to  you.  I  know  that  does 
not  count  an  atom  in  comparison  to  my  responsibilities. 
You  trusted  me  as  you  trusted  no  one  else,  and  I  de- 
ceived you.  So  you  have  the  right  to  hate  me  as  you 
hate  no  one  else.  And  yet — is  it  not  something,  does 
it  not  mitigate  my  fault  a  little,  that  I  deceived  myself 
far,  far  more  than  I  ever  deceived  you  ?"  He  raised  his 
eyebrows.  There  was  mockery  in  the  movement,  and 
she  went  on,  desperately  resolute :  "I  played  at  loving 
you,  Nehal.  I  played  a  comedy  with  you  for  my  own 
purposes.  And  one  day  it  ceased  to  be  a  comedy.  I 
did  not  know  it.  I  did  not  know  what  was  driving 
me  to  tell  the  truth,  and  reveal  myself  to  you  in  the 
ugliest  light  I  could.  I  only  knew  it  was  something 
in  me  stronger  than  any  other  impulse  of  my  life.  I 
know  what  it  is  now,  and  you  must  know,  too.  Can't 
you  understand  ?  If  it  had  been  no  more  than  a  com- 
edy, you  must  have  found  me  out — months  ago.  But 
you  never  found  me  out.  It  was  /  who  told  you  what 
I  had  done  and  who  I  was — " 

"Why  did  you  tell  me?"  He  took  an  involuntary 
step  toward  her.  Something  in  his  face  relaxed  be- 


374  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

neath  the  force  of  an  uncontrollable  emotion.  He  was 
asking  a  question  which  had  hammered  at  the  gates  of 
his  mind  day  after  day  and  in  every  waking  hour. 
"Why?"  he  repeated. 

"I  have  told  you — because  I  had  to.  I  had  to  speak 
the  truth.  I  couldn't  build  up  my  new  life  on  an  old 
lie.  You  had  to  know.  I  had  won  your  love  by  a 
trick.  I  had  to  show  you  the  lowest  and  worst  part 
of  myself  before  the  best  in  me  could  grow — the  best 
in  me,  which  is  yours." 

"You  are  raving!" 

"I  am  not  raving.  You  must  see  I  am  not.  Look 
at  me.  I  am  calmer  than  you,  though  I  face  cer- 
tain death.  I  knew  when  I  came  here  that  the  chances 
were  I  should  be  killed  before  I  even  saw  you,  but  I 
had  to  risk  that.  I  had  to  win  your  trust  back  some- 
how, honestly  and  fairly.  I  can  not  live  without  your 
trust." 

"Beatrice!"  The  name  escaped  him  almost  without 
his  knowledge.  He  saw  tears  spring  to  her  eyes. 

"It  is  true.  Your  love  and  your  trust  have  become 
my  life.  Then  I  was  unworthy  of  both.  I  tried  to 
make  myself  worthy.  I  did  what  I  could.  I  told  you 
the  truth — I  threw  away  the  only  thing  that  mattered 
to  me.  I  could  not  hold  your  love  any  longer  by  a  lie 
— I  loved  you  too  much!" 

For  that  moment  the  passionate  energy  of  her 
words,  the  sincerity  and  eloquence  of  her  glance,  swept 
back  every  thought  of  suspicion.  He  stood  stupefied, 
almost  overwhelmed.  Mechanically  his  lips  formed 
themselves  to  a  few  broken  sentences. 

"You  can  not  know  what  you  are  saying.  You  are 
beside  yourself.  Once,  in  my  ignorance,  I  believed 


HALF-LIGHT  375 

it  possible,  but  now  I  know  that  it  could  never  be. 
Your  race  despises  mine — " 

"I  do  not  care  what  you  are  nor  to  whom  you  be- 
long!" she  broke  in,  exulting.  "You  are  the  man  who 
taught  me  to  believe  that  there  is  something  in  this 
world  that  is  good,  that  is  worthy  of  veneration;  who 
awoke  in  me  what  little  good  I  have.  I  love  you. 
If  I  could  win  you  back — " 

"What  then?" 

"I  would  follow  you  to  the  world's  end!" 

"As  my  wife?" 

"As  your  wife!" 

He  held  out  his  arms  toward  her,  impulse  rising 
like  the  sun  high  and  splendid  above  the  mists  of 
distrust.  It  was  an  instant's  forgetfulness,  which  passed 
as  rapidly  as  it  had  come.  His  arms  sank  heavily  to 
his  side. 

"Have  you  thought  what  that  means?  If  you  go 
with  me,  you  must  leave  your  people  for  ever." 

"I  would  follow  you  gladly." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"You  do  not  understand.  You  must  leave  them  now 
— now  when  I  go  against  them." 

"No !"  she  broke  in  roughly.  "You  can't,  Nehal,  you 
can't.  You  have  the  right  to  be  bitter  and  angry ;  you 
have  not  the  right  to  commit  a  crime.  And  it  would 
be  a  crime.  You  are  plunging  thousands  into  blood- 
shed and  ruin — "  He  lifted  his  hand,  and  the  expres- 
sion in  his  eyes  checked  her. 

"So  it  is,  after  all,  a  bargain  that  you  offer  me!" 
he  said.  "You  are  trying  to  save  them.  You  offer 
a  high  price,  but  I  am  not  a  merchant.  I  can  not  buy 
you,  Beatrice." 


376  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"It  is  not  a  bargain!"  For  the  first  time  she  fal- 
tered, taken  aback  by  the  pitiless  logic  of  his  words. 
"Can't  you  see  that?  Can't  you  see  that,  however 
much  I  loved  you,  I  could  not  act  otherwise  than  im- 
plore you  to  turn  back  from  a  step  that  means  de- 
struction for  those  bound  to  me  by  blood  and  country  ? 
Could  I  do  less?" 

"No,"  he  said  slowly. 

She  held  out  her  hands  to  him. 

"Oh,  Nehal,  turn  back  while  there  is  yet  time! 
For  my  sake,  for  yours,  for  us  all,  turn  back  from  a 
bloody,  cruel  revenge.  The  power  is  yours.  Be  gen- 
erous. If  we  have  wronged  you,  we  have  suffered  and 
are  ready  to  atone.  /  am  ready  to  atone.  I  can  atone, 
because  I  love  you.  I  have  spoken  the  truth  to  you. 
I  have  laid  my  soul  bare  to  you  as  I  have  done  to  no 
other  being.  Won't  you  trust  me?" 

His  eyes  met  hers  with  a  somber,  hopeless  signifi- 
cance which  cut  her  to  the  heart. 

"I  can't,"  he  said.  "I  can't.  That  is  what  you 
have  taught  me — to  distrust  you — and  every  one." 

She  stood  silent  now,  paralyzed  by  the  finality  of 
his  words  and  gesture.  It  was  as  though  the  shadow 
of  her  heartless  folly  had  risen  before  her  and  become 
an  iron  wall  of  unrelenting,  measured  retribution 
against  which  she  beat  herself  in  vain.  He  lifted  his 
head  higher,  seeming  to  gather  together  his  shaken 
powers  of  self-control. 

"I  can  not  trust  you,"  he  said  again,  "nor  can  I  turn 
back.  But  there  is  one  thing  from  the  past  which 
can  not  be  changed.  I  love  you.  It  seems  that  must 
remain  through  all  my  life.  And  because  of  that  love 
I  must  save  you  from  the  death  that  awaits  your  coun- 


HALF-LIGHT  377 

trymen."  He  smiled  in  faint  self -contempt.  "It  is  not 
for  your  sake  that  I  shall  save  you ;  it  is  because  I  am 
too  great  a  coward,  and  can  not  face  the  thought  that 
anything  so  horrible  should  come  near  you."  He 
turned  to  two  native  soldiers  behind  him  and  gave  an 
order.  When  he  faced  Beatrice  again  he  saw  that 
she  held  a  revolver  in  her  hand. 

"You  do  not  understand,"  she  said.  "You  say  you 
mean  to  save  me,  but  that  is  not  in  your  power.  It  is 
in  your  power  to  save  us  all,  but  not  one  alone.  I 
know  what  my  people  have  resolved  to  do.  There  are 
weak,  frightened  women  among  them,  but  not  one  of 
them  will  fall  into  your  hands  alive.  Whatever  hap- 
pens, I  shall  share  their  fate." 

Though  her  tone  was  quiet  and  free  from  all  bra- 
vado, he  knew  that  she  was  not  boasting.  He  knew, 
too,  that  she  was  desperate. 

"You  can  not  force  me  to  kill  you,"  he  said  sternly. 

"I  think  it  possible,"  she  answered.  She  was 
breathing  quickly,  and  her  eyes  were  bright  with  a 
reckless,  feverish  excitement.  But  the  hand  that  held 
the  revolver  pointed  at  the  men  behind  him  was 
steady — steadier  than  his  own. 

Nehal  Singh  motioned  back  the  two  natives  who  had 
advanced  at  his  order. 

"You  play  a  dangerous  game,"  he  said,  "and,  as 
before,  your  strength  lies  in  my  weakness — in  my  folly. 
But  this  time  you  can  not  win.  My  word  is  given — to 
my  people." 

"I  shall  not  plead  with  you,"  she  returned  steadily, 
"and  you  may  be  sure  I  shall  not  waver.  I  am  not 
afraid  to  die.  I  had  hoped  to  atone  for  all  the  wrong 
that  has  been  done  you  with  my  love  for  you,  Nehal. 


378  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

I  had  hoped  that  then  you  would  turn  away  from  this 
madness  and  become  once  more  our  friend.  To  this 
end  I  have  not  hesitated  to  trample  on  my  dignity  and 
pride.  I  have  not  spared  myself.  But  you  will  not 
listen,  you  are  determined  to  go  on,  and  I" — she  caught 
her  breath  sharply — "surely  you  can  understand?  I 
love  you,  and  you  have  made  yourself  the  enemy  of  my 
country.  Death  is  the  easiest,  the  kindest  solution  to 
it  all." 

Nehal  Singh's  brows  knitted  themselves  in  the  an- 
guish of  a  man  who  finds  himself  thwarted  by  his  own 
nature.  He  tried  not  to  believe  her,  and  indeed,  in  all 
her  words,  though  they  had  rung  like  music,  his  ear, 
tuned  to  suspicion,  had  heard  the  mocking  undercur- 
rent of  laughter.  She  had  laughed  at  him  secretly 
through  all  those  months  when  he  had  offered  up  to 
her  the  incense  of  an  absolute  faith,  an  unshared  de- 
votion. Even  now  she  might  be  laughing  at  him, 
playing  on  that  in  him  which  nothing  could  destroy  or 
conceal — his  love  for  her.  And  yet — !  Behind  him  he 
heard  the  uneasy  stir  of  impatient  feet,  the  hushed 
clash  of  arms.  He  stood  between  her  and  a  certain, 
terrible  death.  One  word  from  him,  and  it  would  be 
over — his  path  clear.  But  he  could  not  speak  that 
word.  Treacherous  and  cruel  as  she  had  been,  the 
halo  of  her  first  glory  still  hung  about  her.  He  saw 
her  as  he  had  first  seen  her — the  golden  image  of  pure 
womanhood — and,  strange,  unreasoning  contradiction 
of  the  human  heart,  beneath  the  ashes  of  his  old  faith 
a  new  fire  had  kindled  and  with  every  moment  burned 
more  brightly.  Unquenchable  trust  fought  out  a  death 
struggle  with  distrust,  and  in  that  conflict  her  words 
recurred  to  him  with  poignant  significance :  "Death  is 


HALF-LIGHT  379 

the  easiest,  the  kindest  solution  to  it  all."  For  him 
also  there  seemed  no  other  escape.  He  pointed  to  the 
revolver. 

"For  whom  is  that  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  do  not  know — but  I  will  make  them  kill  me." 

"Why  do  you  not  shoot  me,  then?"  he  demanded, 
between  despair  and  bitterness.  "That  would  save  you 
all.  If  I  fell,  they  would  turn  and  fly.  They  think  I 
am  Vishnu.  Haven't  you  thought  of  that  ?  I  am  in 
your  power.  Why  don't  you  make  yourself  the  bene- 
factress of  your  country?  Why  don't  you  shoot  her 
enemy  ?" 

She  made  no  answer,  but  her  eyes  met  his  steadily 
and  calmly.  He  turned  away,  groaning.  In  vain  he 
fought  against  it,  in  vain  stung  himself  to  action  by 
the  memory  of  all  that  she  had  done  to  him.  His 
love  remained  triumphant.  In  that  supreme  moment 
his  faith  burst  through  the  darkness,  and  again  he  be- 
lieved in  her,  believed  in  her  against  reason,  against 
the  world,  against  the  ineffaceable  past,  and  against 
himself.  And  it  was  too  late.  He  no  longer  stood 
alone.  His  word  was  given. 

"Have  pity  on  me !"  he  said,  once  more  facing  her. 
"Let  me  save  you !" 

"I  should  despise  myself,  and  you  would  despise 
me — even  more  than  you  do  now.  I  can  not  do  less 
than  share  the  fate  of  those  whose  lives  my  folly  has 
jeopardized." 

"At  least  go  back  to  them — do  not  stay  here.  Bea- 
trice, for  God's  sake ! — I  can  not  turn  back.  You  have 
made  me  suffer  enough — "  He  stood  before  her  now 
as  an  incoherent  pleader,  and  her  heart  burned  with 
an  exultation  in  which  the  thought  of  life  and  death 


380  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

played  no  part.  She  knew  that  he  still  loved  her.  It 
seemed  for  the  moment  all  that  mattered. 

"I  can  not,"  she  said. 

"Beatrice,  do  not  deceive  yourself.  Though  my  life 
is  nothing  to  me — though  I  would  give  it  a  dozen  times 
to  save  you — I  can  not  do  otherwise  than  go  on.  I  may 
be  weak,  but  I  shall  be  stronger  than  my  weakness. 
My  word  is  given!" 

He  spoke  with  the  tempestuous  energy  of  despair. 
The  minutes  were  passing  with  terrible  swiftness,  and 
any  moment  the  sea  behind  him  might  burst  its  dam 
and  sweep  her  and  him  to  destruction.  Already  in 
the  distance  he  heard  the  dull  clamour  of  voices  raised 
in  angry  remonstrance  at  the  delay.  Only  those  imme- 
diately about  him  were  held  in  awed  silence  by  the 
power  of  his  personality.  Again  Beatrice  shook  her 
head.  She  stood  in  the  doorway  which  opened  out 
into  the  garden  where  the  besieged  had  taken  refuge. 
There  was  no  other  way.  He  advanced  toward  her. 
Instantly  she  raised  her  revolver  and  pointed  it  at  the 
first  man  behind  him. 

"If  I  fire,"  she  said,  "not  even  you  will  be  able  to 
hold  them  back." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  stood  like  a  frail  wall  be- 
tween two  overwhelming  forces — on  the  one  side, 
Nehal  with  his  thousands;  on  the  other,  Nicholson — 
alone,  truly,  but  armed  with  a  set  and  pitiless  resolve. 
A  single  sentence,  which  had  fallen  upon  her  ears 
months  before,  rose  now  out  of  an  ocean  of  half- 
forgotten  memories:  "Nicholson  is  the  best  shot  in 
India,"  some  one  had  said:  "he  never  misses."  And 
still  Nehal  advanced.  His  jaws  were  locked,  his  eyes 
had  a  red  fire  in  them.  She  knew  then  that  the  hour 


HALF-LIGHT  381 

of  hesitation  was  over,  and  that  in  that  desperate  strug- 
gle she  had  indeed  lost.  Uncontrollable  words  of 
warning  rushed  to  her  lips. 

"Nehal— turn  back!  Turn  back!" 

He  did  not  understand  her.  He  thought  she  was 
still  pleading  with  him. 

"I  can  not — God  have  pity  on  us  both !" 

Then  she  too  set  her  lips.  She  could  not  betray  the 
last  hope  of  that  heroic  handful  of  men  and  women 
behind  her.  He  must  go  to  his  death — and  she  to  hers. 
She  fired, — whether  with  success  or  not,  she  never 
knew.  In  that  same  instant  another  sound  broke  upon 
their  ears — the  sound  of  distant  firing,  the  rattle  of 
drums  and  the  high  clear  call  of  a  trumpet.  Nehal 
Singh  swung  around.  She  caught  a  glimpse  of  his 
face  through  the  smoke,  and  she  saw  something  written 
there  which  she  could  not  understand.  She  only 
knew  that  his  features  seemed  to  bear  a  new  familiar- 
ity, as  though  a  mask  had  been  torn  from  them,  reveal- 
ing the  face  of  another  man,  of  a  man  whom  she  had 
seen  before,  when  and  where  she  could  not  tell.  She 
had  no  time  to  analyze  her  emotions  nor  the  sense  of 
violent  shock  which  passed  over  her.  She  heard  Nehal 
Singh  giving  sharp,  rapid  orders  in  Hindustani.  The 
room  emptied.  She  saw  him  follow  the  retreating 
natives.  At  the  door  he  turned  and  looked  back  at 
her.  At  no  time  had  his  love  for  her  revealed  itself 
more  clearly  than  in  that  last  glance. 

"The  English  regiment  has  come  to  help  you,"  he 
said.  "Fate  has  intervened  between  us  this  time.  May 
we  never  meet  again !" 

He  passed  out  through  the  shattered  doorway,  but 
she  stood  where  he  had  left  her,  motionless,  almost  un- 


382  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

conscious.  It  was  thus  Nicholson  and  the  Colonel 
found  her  when,  a  moment  later,  they  entered  the 
room  by  the  verandah.  Colonel  Carmichael's  passion- 
ate reproaches  died  away  as  he  saw  her  face. 

"You  must  not  stop  here,"  he  said.  "You  have 
frightened  us  all  terribly.  The  regiment  has  come 
and  is  attacking.  There  will  be  some  desperate  fight- 
ing. We  must  all  stick  together." 

She  caught  Nicholson's  eyes  resting  on  her.  She 
thought  she  read  pity  and  sympathy  in  their  steady 
depths,  and  wondered  if  he  guessed  what  she  had  tried 
to  do.  But  he  said  nothing,  and  she  followed  the  two 
men  blindly  and  indifferently  back  to  the  bungalow. 


CHAPTER  X 

TRAVERS 

THEY  had  no  light.  They  talked  in  whispers, 
and  now  and  again,  when  the  darkness  grew  too 
oppressive,  they  stretched  out  groping  hands  and 
touched  each  other.  They  did  this  without  explana- 
tion. Though  none  complained  or  spoke  of  fear, 
each  needed  the  consolation  of  the  other's  com- 
pany, and  a  touch  was  worth  more  than  words. 
Mrs.  Gary  alone  needed  nothing.  She  lay  on  the 
rough  truckle-bed  and  slept.  Thus  she  had  been 
for  a  week — a  whole  week  of  nerve-wrecking  strug- 
gle against  odds  which  marked  hope  as  vain.  Bul- 
lets had  beaten  like  rain  upon  the  walls  about  her, 
the  moaning  of  wounded  men  on  the  other  side  of 
the  hastily  constructed  partition  mingled  unceas- 
ingly with  the  cries  of  the  ever-nearing  enemy.  And 
she  had  lain  there  quiet  and  indifferent.  Martins, 
the  regiment's  doctor,  had  looked  in  once  at  her 
and  had  shaken  his  head.  "In  all  probability  she 
will  never  wake,"  he  had  said.  "Perhaps  it  is  the 
kindest  thing  that  could  happen  to  her."  And  then 
he  had  gone  his  way  to  those  who  needed  him  more. 

Mrs.  Berry  knelt  by  the  bedside.  Her  hands  were 
folded.  She  had  been  praying,  but  exhaustion  had 
overcome  her,  and  her  quiet,  peaceful  breathing 
contrasted  strangely  with  the  other  sounds  that 

383 


384  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

filled  the  bungalow.  Mrs.  Carmichael  and  Beatrice 
sat  huddled  close  together,  listening.  They  could 
do  nothing — not  even  help  the  wounded  men  who 
lay  so  close  to  them.  Everything  was  in  pitch  dark- 
ness, and  no  lights  were  allowed.  They  could  not 
go  out  and  help  in  the  stern,  relentless  struggle 
that  was  going  on  about  them.  They  bore  the 
woman's  harder  lot  of  waiting,  inactive,  powerless, 
fighting  the  harder  battle  against  uncertainty  and 
all  the  horrors  of  the  imagination. 

"I  am  sorry  the  regiment  has  come,"  Mrs.  Car- 
michael whispered.  "There  is  no  doubt  they  will 
be  massacred  with  the  rest  of  us.  What  are  a  few 
hundreds  against  thousands?  It  is  a  pity.  They 
are  such  fine  fellows." 

Her  rough,  tired  voice  had  a  ring  of  unconquer- 
able pride  in  it.  She  was  thinking  of  the  gallant 
charge  her  husband's  men  had  made  only  two  weeks 
before ;  how  they  had  broken  through  the  wall  of 
the  enemy,  and,  cheering,  had  rushed  to  meet  the 
besieged  garrison.  That  had  been  a  moment  of  rejoic- 
ing, transitory  and  deceptive.  Then  the  wall  closed  in 
about  them  again,  and  they  knew  that  they  were 
trapped. 

"Perhaps  we  can  hold  out  till  help  comes,"  Bea- 
trice said. 

She  tried  not  to  be  indifferent.  For  the  sake  of 
her  companions  she  would  gladly  have  felt  some 
desire  for  life,  but  in  truth  it  had  no  value  for  her. 
She  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  evil  she  had 
done  and  of  the  atonement  that  had  been  denied 
her.  It  was  to  no  purpose  that  she  worked  un- 
ceasingly for  the  wounded.  The  sense  of  respon- 


TRAVERS  385 

sibility  never  left  her.  Each  moan,  each  death-sigh 
brought  the  same  meaning  to  her  ear:  "You  have 
helped  to  do  this — this  is  your  work." 

"No  help  will  come,"  Mrs.  Carmichael  said,  shak- 
ing her  head  at  the  darkness.  "When  a  whole 
province  rises  as  this  has  done,  it  takes  months  to 
organize  a  sufficient  force,  and  we  shan't  last  out 
many  days.  I  wonder  what  people  in  England  are 
saying.  How  well  I  can  see  them  over  their  break- 
fast cups !  Oh,  dear,  I  mustn't  think  of  breakfast  cups, 
or  I  shall  lose  my  nerve."  She  laughed  under  her 
breath,  and  there  was  a  long  silence. 

Presently  the  door  of  the  bungalow  opened,  let- 
ting in  a  stream  of  moonlight.  It  was  closed  in- 
stantly, and  soft  footfalls  came  over  the  boarded 
floor. 

"Who  is  it?"  Mrs.  Carmichael  whispered. 

"I — Lois,"  was  the  answer.  The  new-comer  crept 
down  by  Beatrice's  side  and  leaned  her  head  against 
the  warm  shoulder.  "I  am  so  tired,"  she  said  faint- 
ly. "I  have  been  with  Archibald.  He  has  been 
moaning  so.  Mr.  Berry  says  he  is  afraid  mortifica- 
tion has  set  in.  It  is  terrible." 

"Poor  little  woman !"  Beatrice  put  her  arm  about 
the  slender  figure  and  drew  her  closer.  "Lay  your 
head  on  my  lap  and  sleep  a  little.  You  can  do  no 
good  just  now." 

"Thank  you.  I  will,  if  you  don't  mind.  You  will 
wake  me  if  anything  happens,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  promise."  It  gave  Beatrice  a  sense  of 
comfort  to  have  Lois  near  her.  Very  gently  she 
passed  her  hand  over  the  aching  forehead,  and  pres- 
ently Lois  fell  into  a  sleep  of  absolute  exhaustion. 


386  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

By  mutual  consent,  Mrs.  Carmichael  and  Beatrice 
ceased  to  talk,  but  when  suddenly  there  was  a  move- 
ment close  to  them,  and  a  dim  light  flashed  over 
the  partition,  they  exchanged  a  glance  of  meaning. 

"That  is  my  husband,"  Mrs.  Carmichael  whis- 
pered. "Something  is  going  to  happen.  Listen !" 

She  was  not  wrong  in  her  supposition.  The 
Colonel  had  entered  the  next  room,  followed  by 
Nicholson  and  Saunders,  and  had  closed  the  door 
carefully  after  him.  All  three  men  carried  lanterns. 
They  glanced  instinctively  at  the  wooden  partition 
which  divided  them  from  the  four  women,  but  Car- 
michael shook  his  head. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said.  "They  must  be  fast 
asleep,  poor  souls.  Let's  have  a  look  at  these  fel- 
lows." He  went  over  to  a  huddled-up  figure  lying 
in  the  shadow.  The  corner  of  a  military  cloak  had 
been  thrown  over  the  face.  He  drew  it  on  one  side 
and  then  let  it  drop.  "Gone !"  he  said  laconically. 
He  passed  on  to  the  next.  There  were  in  all  three 
men  ranged  against  the  wall.  Two  of  them  were 
dead.  "Martins  told  me  they  couldn't  last,"  Colonel 
Carmichael  muttered.  "It  is  better  for  them.  They 
are  out  of  it  a  little  sooner,  that's  all."  The  third 
man  was  Travers.  He  lay  on  his  back,  his  face 
turned  slightly  toward  the  wall,  his  eyes  closed.  He 
seemed  asleep.  The  Colonel  nodded  somberly.  "An- 
other ten  hours,"  he  calculated. 

He  came  back  to  the  table,  where  the  others 
waited,  and  drew  out  a  paper  from  his  pocket. 

"Give  me  your  light  a  moment,  Nicholson,"  he 
said. 


TRAVERS  387 

No  one  spoke  while  he  examined  the  list  before 
him.  All  around  them  was  a  curious  hush — a  new 
thing  in  their  struggle,  and  one  that  seemed  sur- 
charged with  calamity.  After  a  moment  Colonel 
Carmichael  looked  up.  He  was  many  years  the 
senior  of  his  companions,  but  just  then  there  seemed 
no  difference  in  years  between  them.  They  were 
three  wan,  haggard  men,  weakened  with  hunger, 
exhausted  with  sleepless  watching.  That  week  had 
killed  the  youth  in  two  of  them. 

"Geoffries  has  just  given  me  this,"  Carmichael 
said.  "It  is  a  list  of  our  provisions.  We  have  enough 
food,  but  there  is  no  fresh  water.  The  enemy  has 
cut  off  the  supply.  We  could  not  expect  them  to 
do  otherwise."  He  waited,  and  then,  as  neither 
spoke,  he  went  on :  "I  have  spoken  with  the  others. 
You  know,  gentlemen,  we  can  not  go  on  another 
twenty-four  hours  without  water.  We  have  made 
a  good  fight  for  it,  but  this  is  the  end.  We  must 
look  the  fact  in  the  face." 

"Surely  they  must  know  at  headquarters  what 
a  state  we  are  in — "  Saunders  began. 

The  Colonel  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"No  doubt  they  know,  but  they  can  not  help  in 
time.  This  is  not  a  petty  frontier  business.  It  is 
something  worse — a  rising  with  a  leader.  A  rising 
with  a  leader  is  a  lengthy  business  to  tackle,  and  it 
requires  its  victims.  In  this  case  we  are  the  vic- 
tims." He  smiled  grimly.  "We  have  only  one  thing 
left  to  do — make  a  dash  for  it  while  we  have  the 
strength.  You  must  know  as  well  as  I  do  that 
there  is  scarcely  anything  worth  calling  a  hope,  but 


388  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

it's  a  more  agreeable  way  of  dying  than  being 
starved  out  like  rats  and  then  butchered  like  sheep. 
I  know  these  devils."  He  glanced  around  the  shad- 
owy room  with  a  curious  light  in  his  eyes.  "My 
best  friend  was  murdered  in  this  room,"  he  added. 
"Personally,  I  prefer  a  fair  fight  in  the  open." 

"When  do  you  propose  to  make  the  start, 
Colonel?"  Nicholson  asked. 

"Within  an  hour.  The  night  favors  us.  The 
women  must  be  kept  in  the  center  as  much  as  pos- 
sible. I  have  given  Geoffries  special  charge  over 
them.  They  will  be  told  at  the  last  moment.  There 
is  no  use  in  spoiling  what  little  rest  they  have  had." 
He  drew  out  a  pencil  and  began  to  scribble  a  des- 
patch on  the  back  of  an  old  letter.  "I  advise  you 
gentlemen  to  do  likewise,"  he  said.  "Very  often  a 
piece  of  paper  gets  through  where  a  man  can  not, 
and  it  is  our  bounden  duty  to  supply  the  morning 
periodicals  with  as  much  news  as  possible." 

For  some  minutes  there  was  no  sound  save  that 
of  the  pencils  scrawling  the  last  messages  of  men 
with  the  seal  of  death  already  stamped  upon  their 
foreheads.  All  three  had  forgotten  Travers,  and 
yet  from  the  moment  they  had  begun  to  speak  he 
had  been  awake  and  listening.  He  sat  up  now, 
leaning  upon  his  elbow. 

"Nicholson !"  he  said  faintly. 

Nicholson  turned  and  came  to  his  side. 

"Hullo!"  he  said.  "Awake,  are  you?  How  are 
you?" 

Travers  made  no  immediate  answer;  he  took 
Nicholson's  hand  in  a  feverish  clasp  and  drew  him 
nearer. 


TRAVERS  389 

"I  am  in  great  pain,"  he  said.  "You  don't  need 
to  pretend.  I  know.  The  fear  of  death  has  been 
on  me  all  day.  Just  now  I  am  not  afraid.  Is  there 
no  hope?" 

"You  mean — for  us?    None." 

Travers  nodded. 

"I  heard  you  talking,  but  I  wanted  to  make  sure. 
It  has  all  been  my  fault — every  bit  of  it.  It's  decent 
of  you  not  to  make  me  feel  it  more.  You  are  not 
to  blame — her.  You  know  I  tempted  her,  I  made 
her  help  me.  She  isn't  responsible.  At  any  rate, 
she  made  a  clean  breast  of  it — that's  something  to 
her  credit.  I  didn't  want  to — I  never  meant  to.  I 
am  not  the  sort  that  repents.  But  this  last  week 
you  have  been  so  decent,  and  Lois  such  a  plucky 
little  soul — she  ought  to  hate  me — and  perhaps  she 
does — but  she  has  done  her  best.  Nicholson,  are 
you  listening?  Can  you  hear  what  I  say?  It's  so 
damned  hard  for  me  to  talk." 

"I  can  hear,"  Nicholson  said  kindly.  "Don't  wor- 
ry about  what  can't  be  helped."  In  spite  of  every- 
thing, he  pitied  the  man,  and  his  tone  showed  it. 

Travers  lifted  himself  higher,  clinging  to  the 
other's  shoulder.  His  voice  began  to  come  in  rough, 
uneven  jerks. 

"But  it  can  be  helped — it  must  be  helped !  Don't 
you  see — I  came  between  you  and  Lois  purposely. 
From  the  first  moment  you  spoke  of  her  I  knew 
that  you  loved  her — and  I  wanted  her.  I  never 
gave  your  message.  I  didn't  dare.  You  are  the  sort 
of  man  a  woman  cares  for — a  woman  like  Lois.  I 
couldn't  risk  it.  But  now — well,  I'm  done,  and 
afterward  she  will  be  free — " 


390  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

Nicholson  drew  back  stiffly. 

"You  are  talking  nonsense,"  he  said,  in  a  colder 
tone.  "No  one  wants  you  to  die — and  in  any  case, 
you  know  very  well  we  have  no  chance  of  getting 
through  this  alive." 

Travers  seized  his  arm.  His  eyes  shone  with  a 
painful  excitement. 

"Yes — yes !"  he  stammered.  "You  have  a  chance 
— a  sure  hope.  I  can  save  you  ;  I  can — atone.  That's 
what  I  want.  Only  you  must  help  me.  I  am  a  dy- 
ing man.  I  want  you  to  bring  me  to  the  Rajah — 
at  once.  Only  five  minutes  with  him — that  will  be 
enough.  Then  he  will  let  you  go — he  must !" 

Nicholson  freed  himself  resolutely  from  the  cling- 
ing hands. 

"You  exaggerate  your  power,"  he  said,  "and,  be- 
sides, what  you  ask  is  an  impossibility." 

He  turned  away,  but  Travers  caught  his  arm  and 
held  him  with  a  frantic,  desperate  strength. 

"Then  if  you  will  not  help  me — send  Miss  Gary 
to  me,"  he  pleaded.  "I  must  speak  to  her." 

Nicholson  looked  down  into  the  dying  face  with 
a  new  interest.  He  had  no  suspicion  of  the  burden 
with  which  Travers'  soul  was  laden,  and  yet  he  was 
conscious  now  that  the  matter  was  urgent  and  of 
an  importance  which  he  could  not  estimate. 

"I  will  tell  her,"  he  said.  "Stay  quiet  a  minute. 
We  have  no  time  to  lose." 

Travers  nodded  and  fell  back  on  to  his  rough 
couch.  His  eyes  closed  and  he  seemed  to  sleep,  but 
as  Beatrice  knelt  down  by  his  side  he  roused  him- 
self and  looked  at  her  with  the  intensity  of  a  man 


TRAVERS  391 

who  has  gathered  his  last  strength  for  a  last  great 
purpose. 

"I  am  dying,"  he  whispered  thickly;  "I  know  it 
and  I  don't  care.  I  am  past  caring.  But  before  I 
die  I  want  to  atone ;  I  want,  if  I  can,  to  save  Lois. 
I  care  for  her  in  my  poor  way,  and  I  would  like  her 
to  be  happy.  Are  you  listening?" 

"I  am  listening,"  Beatrice  answered  gravely.  "Do 
you  think  I  could  close  my  ears  when  you  speak  of 
atonement?" 

He  clutched  her  hand. 

"You  would  be  glad  to  atone  for  all  the  mischief 
we  have  done?" 

"I  would  give  my  life." 

"Is  the  Colonel  there?  I  can't  see  clearly. 
Colonel,  I  want  you  to  hear  what  I  have  to  say." 

Colonel  Carmichael  turned. 

"This  is  no  time,"  he  said  sternly,  "and  it  is  too 
late  for  atonement.  Our  account  with  this  world 
is  cl6sed." 

"It  need  not  be.  Colonel — in  the  name  of  those 
whose  lives  lie  in  your  hands,  I  beg  of  you  to  listen 
to  me." 

There  was  a  moment's  hesitating  silence.  Trav- 
ers'  glazed  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  elder  man's  face 
with  a  hypnotizing  power.  The  Colonel  drew  nearer 
— reluctantly  knelt  down. 

"Be  quick  then !"  he  said. 

Travers  nodded.  His  head  was  thrown  back 
against  Beatrice's  shoulder.  With  fumbling,  trembling 
fingers  he  drew  a  plain  gold  ring  from  his  pocket  and 
thrust  it  into  the  Colonel's  hand. 


392  THE  NATIVE  BORX 

"Look  at  that!"  he  whispered.  "Look  at  the  in- 
scription." 

Carmichael  turned  to  the  feeble  light.  No  one 
spoke  or  moved.  They  watched  him  and  waited 
with  a  reasonless,  breathless  suspense. 

"My  God !"  he  whispered,  "How  did  you  come 
by  this?" 

Travers  drew  himself  upright.  The  shadows  of 
death  were  banished  in  that  last  moment ;  his  voice 
was  clear  and  steady  as  he  answered. 

"Listen,"  he  said.  "I  will  tell  you — and  then  act 
before  it  is  too  late!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN  THE   HOUR  OF   NEED 

NEHAL  SINGH  pulled  aside  the  curtains  over  the 
window  and  stepped  out  on  to  the  balcony.  The  air  in 
the  great  silent  room  behind  him  stifled  him,  and  even 
the  night  breeze,  as  it  touched  his  cheeks,  seemed  to 
burn  with  fever.  He  stood  there  motionless,  his  arms 
folded,  gazing  fixedly  into  the  half-darkness.  A  pale, 
watery  moonlight  cast  an  unearthly  shimmer  over  the 
shadowy  world  before  him,  brightened  every  here  and 
there  by  the  will-o'-the-wisp  fire  points  which  marked 
the  presence  of  the  camped  thousands  waiting  silently 
for  his  word.  Only  one  spot — it  seemed  like  a  black 
stain — remained  in  absolute  gloom,  and  it  was  thither 
the  Rajah's  eyes  were  turned.  Every  night  he  had 
come  to  the  same  place  to  watch  it.  Every  night  he 
had  tortured  himself  with  the  thought  of  all  it  con- 
tained. 

For  he  knew  now,  with  the  clear  certainty  of 
a  man  who  has  searched  down  to  the  bottom  of  his 
soul,  that  in  that  silent  area  his  whole  life,  his  one  hope 
of  happiness  was  bound  up,  and  waited,  with  those  who 
were  fighting  stubbornly,  heroically,  against  the  end — 
its  destruction  beneath  his  own  sword.  He  was  fight- 
ing against  himself.  With  his  own  hands  he  was  tear- 
ing down  that  which  seemed  an  inseparable,  incorpor- 
ate part  of  himself.  Anger  and  contempt  were  dead. 

393 


394  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

In  their  place  the  old  love  had  rekindled  and  grown 
brighter  before  the  sight  of  a  courage,  dignified  and 
silent,  which  had  held  back  the  tide  of  furious  fanat- 
icism and  thwarted  his  own  despair.  He  had  seen, 
with  eyes  which  burned  with  an  indescribable  emotion, 
a  regiment  of  wearied,  weakened  men,  led  by  a  man 
he  had  once  despised,  burst  through  the  densest  squares 
of  his  own  soldiers ;  he  had  heard  their  cheers  as  they 
had  clasped  hands  with  the  defenders ;  he  had  looked 
aghast  into  his  own  heart,  afire  with  admiration,  ach- 
ing with  a  strange,  broken-hearted  gratitude  to  God 
who  had  made  such  men.  It  was  in  vain  that,  lash- 
ing himself  with  the  knowledge  of  his  own  weakness 
and  of  his  disloyalty  to  those  who  followed  him,  he 
had  flung  himself  against  the  defenses  of  the  little  gar- 
rison. 

Day  after  day  they  drove  him  back,  fighting  hand  to 
hand  in  the  earthworks  they  had  thrown  up  in  a  few 
hours  of  miraculous  labor.  He  fought  against  them 
like  a  man  possessed  of  an  unquenchable  hatred ;  but 
at  night,  when  he  was  at  last  alone,  he  had  slipped 
out  on  to  his  balcony  and  held  out  his  hands  toward 
them  in  an  unspeakable  wordless  greeting.  Once  more 
they  had  become  for  him  the  world's  Great  People, 
the  giants  of  his  boyhood's  imagination,  the  heroes  of 
his  man's  ideal.  At  the  point  of  the  sword  they  had 
proved  the  truth  of  Nicholson's  proud  boast,  and  hour 
by  hour  the  man  who  had  turned  from  them  in  a  mo- 
ment of  bitter  disillusion  saw  the  temple  he  had  once 
built  to  their  honor  rise  from  its  ashes  in  new  and 
greater  splendor. 

Thus  two  weeks  had  passed,  and  to-night  was  to  see 
the  end.  Nehal  knew  that,  brave  though  they  were, 


IN  THE  HOUR  OF  NEED  395 

they  could  do  no  more.  They  had  no  water,  and  his 
forces  hugged  them  in  on  every  side.  One  last  attack 
and  it  would  be  over — Marut  would  be  cleared  from  the 
enemy,  his  victory  complete.  His  victory !  It  was  his 
own  ruin  he  was  preparing,  the  certain  destruction  of 
that  which  seemed  linked  invisibly  but  surely  to  his 
own  fate.  And,  knowing  that,  he  knew  also  that  there 
was  no  turning  back  for  him,  no  retreat.  His  word 
was  given.  His  people,  the  people  who  claimed  him  by 
the  right  of  blood,  clamored  for  him  to  lead  them  as 
he  had  sworn.  It  made  no  difference  if  on  the  path  he 
had  chosen  he  trampled  on  every  hope,  every  wish, 
every  rooted  instinct.  There  was  no  turning  back. 
He  knew  it — the  knowledge  that  his  own  words  bound 
him  came  to  him  with  pitiless  finality  as  he  stood 
there  watching  the  silent,  lightless  stretch  which  was 
soon  to  be  the  scene  of  a  last  tragic  struggle ;  and  if 
indeed  there  are  such  things  as  tears  of  blood,  they 
rose  to  his  eyes  now. 

With  lips  compressed  in  an  agony  he  could  neither 
analyze  nor  conquer,  he  turned  slowly  back  into  the 
dimly  lighted  room.  Two  torches  burned  on  either  side 
of  the  throne  and  threw  unsteady  shadows  among  the 
glittering  pillars.  They  lit  up  his  face  and  revealed  it 
as  that  of  a  man  who  has  cast  his  youth  behind  him 
for  ever.  Only  a  few  months  had  passed  since  he  had 
sat  there  with  Travers  in  the  full  noon  of  his  hope  and 
enthusiasm.  He  remembered  the  scene  with  a  clear- 
ness which  was  a  fresh  torture.  The  hopes  that  had 
been  built  up  in  that  hour  lay  shattered,  the  woman 
for  whom  they  had  been  built  was  lost.  He  thought 
of  her  now  as  he  always  thought  of  her,  as  he  knew 
he  would  think  of  her  to  the  end.  For  this  love,  save 


396  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

that  it  had  grown  and  deepened  into  a  wider  under- 
standing, had  remained  unchanged.  As  there  had  been 
cowards  and  tricksters  among  his  heroes,  so  in  that  one 
woman  evil  and  good  had  stood  side  by  side  and  fought 
out  their  battle.  And  the  good  had  won — had  won  be- 
cause he  alone  of  all  men  had  believed  in  it.  He  be- 
lieved in  it  still — in  the  same  measure  as  he  had  learned 
to  love  her — with  a  deeper  understanding  of  tempta- 
tion and  failure.  It  was  the  one  triumph  in  the  midst 
of  seeming  ruin,  the  one  firm  rock  in  the  raging  tor- 
rent of  his  fate,  beaten  as  it  was  between  the  contend- 
ing streams  of  desire  and  duty.  She  was  indeed  lost 
to  him,  but  not  as  in  the  first  hour  of  his  shaken  trust. 
He  had  regained  his  memory  of  her  as  a  good  woman, 
striving  upward  and  onward ;  and  already  he  had  in- 
vested her  with  the  glory  of  those  whom  death  has  al- 
ready claimed  from  us. 

Nehal  Singh  started  from  his  painful  reverie,  con- 
scious that  some  one  had  entered  the  room  and  was 
watching  him.  He  turned  and  saw  his  chief  captain 
standing  respectfully  before  him,  and,  though  it  was 
a  man  he  liked  and  trusted,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
gaunt,  soldierly  figure  had  taken  on  the  form  of  an 
ugly,  threatening  destiny. 

"All  is  ready,  Great  Prince,"  the  native  said,  sal- 
aaming. "Every  man  is  at  his  post.  We  do  but  await 
thy  orders." 

Nehal  did  not  answer.  His  hands  clasped  and  un- 
clasped themselves  in  the  last  agony  of  hesitation.  The 
moment  had  come,  the  inevitable  and  irretrievable  mo- 
ment which  had  loomed  so  long  upon  his  horizon. 
Even  now  he  hardly  knew  what  it  was  tc  bring  him. 


IN  THE  HOUR  OF  NEED  397 

The  forces  warring  in  his  blood  were  locked  in  a  death 
struggle.  At  last  he  nodded  and  his  lips  moved. 

"It  is  well.  In  half  an  hour — I  will  come  to  them. 
In  half  an  hour — the  attack  will  begin."  . 

"Sahib — is  it  good  to  wait?  The  dawn  cometh,  and 
with  the  dawn — " 

Nehal  Singh  lifted  his  hand  peremptorily. 

"In  half  an  hour,"  he  repeated. 

The  man  salaamed  and  was  gone.  Nehal  Singh 
stood  there  like  a  pillar  of  stone.  It  was  over.  In 
half  an  hour !  And  yet,  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  he 
knew  that  he  had  delayed — purposely,  but  to  no  end 
but  his  own  increased  suffering.  With  a  sigh  of  im- 
patience he  turned,  and  in  the  same  instant  became 
once  more  aware  that  he  was  not  alone. 

For  a  moment  he  perceived  nothing  save  the  shad- 
ows and  the  unsteady  flickering  of  the  yellow  torch- 
light. Then  his  vision  cleared  and  he  saw  and  under- 
stood, and  an  exclamation  burst  from  his  horrified 
lips.  It  was  a  woman  who  stood  out  against  the  dark- 
ness, her  body  clothed  in  rags,  the  hair,  grey  and  thin, 
hanging  unkempt  about  her  shoulders,  the  face  turned 
to  his  that  of  some  being  risen  from  a  tomb.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  flesh'  upon  the  high  cheek-bones  nor 
upon  the  hands  that  were  stretched  toward  him;  only 
the  eyes  were  alive  with  an  unquenchable  fire  which 
burned  upon  him  with  a  power  that  was  unearthly. 
She  staggered  a  few  steps  and  then  sank  slowly  to  his 
feet,  her  hands  still  outstretched.  He  knelt  down  and 
supported  the  sinking  head  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Who  art  thou?"  he  whispered  in  Hindustani. 
"Where  hast  thou  come  from?  Tell  me  thy  history." 


398  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

A  look  of  intense  pain  passed  over  her  features. 
Slowly  and  with  a  great  effort  her  lips  parted. 

"I  am  English — let  me  speak  in  English.  I  have 
only  a  few  minutes — I  am  dying." 

He  looked  about  him,  seeking  something  with  which 
to  moisten  her  dry  lips,  but  she  clung  to  him  with  an 
incredible  strength. 

"No,  no,  I  must  speak  with  you.  Up  to  now  I  have 
lived  in  an  awful  nightmare — amidst  ghastly  phantoms 
who  pursued  and  tortured  me.  But  when  I  heard 
your  voice — when  I  heard  you  give  that  order,  I 
awoke.  The  dreams  vanished,  I  heard  and  understood 
— and  remembered!"  She  drew  herself  upright  and 
for  a  moment  spoke  with  a  penetrating  clearness. 
"Not  in  half  an  hour — never !  Withdraw  that  order ! 
If  you  go  against  them  you  are  accursed.  Lay  down 
your  arms!  You  must — you  know  you  must!  You 
dare  not — "  She  clung  to  his  arm  and  her  eyes  seemed 
to  burn  their  way  into  his  very  soul.  "I  tell  you — to 
turn  traitor  is  to  inherit  an  endless  hell — " 

"A  traitor!"  he  echoed.  Something  clutched  at  his 
heart,  a  sort  of  numb  suspense  which  became  electrified 
as  he  saw  a  new  expression  flash  into  her  face. 

"Yes,  a  traitor!"  she  whispered.  "That  was  what 
I  was.  I  was  English — yes,  English  in  spite  of  all, 
but  in  my  bitterness  I  turned  from  my  people.  I  let 
myself  be  taken  alive.  I  would  not  share  the  fate  of 
those  who  had  once  been  dear  to  me.  My  whole  life 
has  been  the  punishment.  They  tortured  me  and  then 
came  the  dreams — the  awful,  hideous  dreams.  I  was 
always  looking  for  you,  always  calling  for  you.  And 
they  laughed  and  mocked  at  me.  Only  one  man  did 
not  laugh — "  her  voice  grew  doubtful  and  hesitating, 


IN  THE  HOUR  OF  NEED  399 

as  though  she  were  groping  in  the  shadows  of  her 
memory.  "He  did  not  laugh.  He  promised  to  help 
me  but  he  never  came  again — and  I  died — yes,  I  died — 
but  I  saw  your  face,  I  heard  your  voice — and  I  came 
back  from  death — to  save  you !"  Once  more  her  vision 
cleared  and  her  voice  grew  steadier.  "Go  back  to 
them !  They  are  your  friends.  If  you  do  not  go,  you 
will  break  your  heart — as  mine  is  broken.  Swear  to 
me — you  must,  because — " 

He  bent  closer  to  her  to  catch  every  sound  that  fell 
from  her  lips.  His  pulses  were  beating  with  a  suf- 
focating violence.  Somewhere  a  veil  was  lifting.  It 
was  as  if  the  sunlight  were  at  last  breaking  through  a 
mist  of  strange  dreams,  strange  longings,  strange  fore- 
bodings. The  confused  voices  that  had  called  to  him 
throughout  his  life  grew  clearer. 

"Because — ?"  he  whispered. 

But  she  did  not  answer.  Her  head  was  thrown  back. 
Her  open  eyes  were  fixed  intently  on  his  face.  Sud- 
denly she  smiled.  It  was  a  smile  that  chilled  his  blood 
with  its  hideous  distortion.  And  yet  behind  it  lurked 
the  possibility  of  a  long-lost  beauty  and  sweetness. 

"Steven!"  she  whispered.    "Steven!" 

Closer  and  closer  she  drew  his  face  to  hers.  Her  icy 
lips  rested  on  his  cheek.  Pity  and  a  strange,  as  yet 
unformed,  foreboding  made  him  accept  that  dying 
caress  and  speak  to  her  with  an  urgent,  pleading  gen- 
tleness. 

"You  have  something  to  tell  me,"  he  murmured, 
"something  I  must  know.  Tell  me  before  it  is  too 
late," 

But  her  eyes  had  closed  and  she  did  not  answer 
him. 


400  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"Rouse  yourself!"  he  insisted.     "Rouse  yourself!" 
It  seemed  to  him  that  she  smiled.     Her  face  had 
undergone  a  change.    It  was  younger,  and  in  the  flick- 
ering  light   his    imagination    brightened    it    with   the 
glories  whose  dim  traces  still  touched  the  haggard, 
emaciated  features.       One  last  time  her  eyes  opened 
and  she  looked  at  him.     The  frenzy  of  despair  was 
gone.     He  felt  that  she  was  looking  beyond  him  to  a 
future  he  could  not  see. 
"Go  back!"  she  whispered.    "Go  back!" 
He  pressed  her  to  him,  seeking  to  pour  something 
of  his  own   seething  vitality   into  her   dying   frame. 
With  her  life  the  threads  of  his  fate  seemed  to  be  slip- 
ping through  his  fingers. 

"Help  me !"  he  implored.  "Do  not  leave  me !" 
But  he  knew  that  she  would  never  answer.  She  lay 
heavy  in  his  arms,  and  the  hand  that  clasped  his  re- 
laxed and  fell  with  a  soft  thud  upon  the  marble.  He 
rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  looking  down  upon  her.  It 
was  not  the  first  time  he  had  seen  death.  In  these 
last  weeks  he  had  met  it  in  all  its  most  hideous,  most 
revolting  forms ;  but  none  had  moved  him,  awed  him 
as  this  did.  He  knew  that  she  had  once  been  beauti- 
ful. Who  had  made  her  suffer  till  only  a  shadow  of 
that  beauty  remained  ?  What  had  she  endured  ?  Who 
was  she  ?  What  did  she  know  of  him  ?  Why  did  she 
call  him  by  a  name  which  rang  in  his  ears  with  a 
vague  familiarity?  What  was  it  in  her  poor  dead  face 
which  stirred  in  him  a  memory  which  had  no  date 
nor  place  in  his  life? 

Outside  he  heard  the  uneasy  stirring  of  the  thou- 
sands who  awaited  him.     He  looked  up  and  through 


IX  THE  HOUR  OF  XEED  401 

the  open  windows,  saw  the  camp-fires  and  that  one 
dark  spot  which  was  to  be  swept  clear  of  all  but  death. 
What  had  she  said?  "Go  back!  Lay  down  your 
arms !  You  must — you  know  you  must !  To  turn 
traitor  is  to  inherit  an  endless  hell!"  A  traitor?  A 
traitor  to  whom — to  what?  To  some  blind  instinct 
that  had  called  him  in  those  English  voices,  that  had 
beaten  out  an  answering  cry  of  thankfulness  from  his 
heart  when  their  cheers  proclaimed  his  own  defeat? 

A  soft  step  roused  him  from  his  troubled  thoughts. 
He  looked  up  and  saw  a  servant  standing  in  the  cur- 
tained doorway.  The  man's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
outstretched  figure  at  Nehal's  feet,  and  there  was  an 
expression  on  the  dark  face  so  full  of  fear  and  horror 
that  the  Rajah  involuntarily  djew  back. 

"Who  was  this  woman?"  he  demanded.  "Whence 
comes  she?" 

"Lord  Sahib,  she  was  a  mad- woman  whom  the  Lord 
Behar  Singh  kept  out  of  mercy.  She  must  have  es- 
caped her  prison.  More  I  know  not." 

The  man  was  trembling  as  though  in  the  shadows 
there  lurked  a  hidden  threatening  danger,  and  Nehal 
turned  aside  with  a  gesture  of  desperate  impatience. 

"Why  hast  thou  come  before  the  time?"  he  asked. 

"Lord  Sahib,  outside  there  are  two  English  pris- 
oners. They  demand  to  be  brought  before  thee.  What 
is  thy  will?" 

"Bring  them  hither." 

Nehal  Singh  stood  where  the  bowing  servant  left 
him,  at  the  side  of  the  poor  dead  woman,  his  hands 
crossed  upon  his  sword-hilt,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  parted 
curtains.  There  he  waited,  motionless,  passive,  as  a 


402  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

man  waits  who  knows  that  he  has  become  the  tool  of 
Destiny. 
A  moment  later,  Beatrice  stood  before  him. 


CHAPTER  XII 

HIS    OWN    PEOPLE 

SHE  was  not  alone,  but  in  that  first  moment  he 
saw  nothing  but  her  face.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
the  whole  world  was  blotted  out  and  that  only  she 
remained,  grave,  fearless,  supreme  in  her  wan  beau- 
ty, a  tragic  figure  glorified  by  a  light  of  unconquer- 
able resolution.  He  looked  at  her  but  he  did  not 
greet  her;  no  muscle  of  his  set  and  ashy  features 
betrayed  the  thrill  of  passionate  recognition  which 
had  passed  like  a  line  of  fire  through  his  veins.  To 
move  was  to  awake  from  a  dream  to  a  hideous,  ter- 
rible reality. 

She  came  slowly  toward  him.  The  thin  wrap 
about  her  head  slipped  back  and  he  saw  the  light 
flash  on  to  the  fair  disheveled  hair.  His  eyes  were 
dazzled,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  there  were  grey 
threads  where  once  had  been  untarnished  gold.  Yet 
he  could  not  and  would  not  speak,  and  she  came 
on  till  she  stood  opposite  him,  the  dead  woman  lying 
there  between  them.  Then  for  the  first  time  she  low- 
ered her  eyes  and  he  awoke  with  a  start  of  agonizing 
pain. 

"Why  have  you  come?"  he  said.  "Have  you 
come  to  plead  again?  Have  you  come  to  torture 
me  again?  Was  not  that  once  enough?  In  a  few 
minutes  I  shall  sweep  your  people  to  destruction. 

403 


404'  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

Shall  I  save  you? — is  that  what  you  have  come  to 
tell  me?" 

He  waited  for  her  answer,  his  teeth  clenched, 
his  brows  knitted  in  the  old  terrible  struggle.  All 
his  energy,  all  his  determination  sank  paralyzed  be- 
fore her  and  before  his  love,  and  yet  he  knew  he 
must  go  on — go  on  with  the  destruction  of  himself, 
of  her,  of  all  that  was  dearest  to  him. 

She  knelt  down  and  touched  the  dead  face  with 
her  white  hand,  closing  the  glazed,  staring  eyes 
with  a  curious  tenderness  and  pity.  There  was  no 
surprise  or  horror  in  her  expression  as  she  at  last 
rose  and  faced  him — rather  a  mysterious  knowledge 
which  held  him  bound  in  wordless  expectation. 

"I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  woman's  history, 
Steven  Caruthers,"  she  said.  "I  have  not  come  to 
plead  with  you  but  to  tell  you  the  truth — to  lay  be- 
fore you  the  two  paths  between  which  you  must 
choose  once  and  for  all.  Will  you  listen  to  me?" 

"Beatrice !"  he  stammered.  "Why  have  you  given 
me  a  name  which  is  not  mine — which  she  gave  me 
with  her  last  breath?  What  do  you  know  that  you 
have  risked  your  life — " 

"It  was  no  risk,"  she  said.  "My  life  was  for- 
feited and  it  was  our  last  hope.  Oh,  if  I  can  turn 
you  from  all  this  ruin,  then  I  shall  have  atoned  for 
the  evil  I  have  done  you !" 

The  note  of  mingled  entreaty,  despair  and  hope 
stirred  him  to  the  depths  of  his  being,  but  he  made  no 
response.  He  could  only  point  to  the  white  face  and 
repeat  the  question  which  had  beaten  in  pitiless  reitera- 
tion against  his  tortured  brain. 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  405 

"Who  was  she?" 

"She  was  your  mother." 

"And  I—?" 

It  was  not  Beatrice  who  this  time  answered.  A 
figure  stepped  forward  out  of  the  shadows  and  faced 
the  Rajah.  It  was  Carmichael,  pale,  deeply  moved, 
but  erect  and  steadfast.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  Ne- 
hal's  features  with  a  curious,  hungry  eagerness 
which  changed  as  he  spoke  into  a  growing  recogni- 
tion. 

"Let  me  tell  you,"  he  said.  "I  will  be  brief,  for 
every  minute  is  precious  and  full  of  danger  for  us 
all.  This  poor  woman  was  Margaret  Caruthers,  the 
wife  of  my  dearest  friend,  and  your  mother.  Until 
an  hour  ago  I  believed  that  she  had  been  butchered 
with  her  husband  and  with  all  those  others  who 
paid  the  penalty  of  one  man's  sin.  No  doubt  you 
know  why  your  supposed  father,  Behar  Singh,  rose 
against  us?" 

"His  honor — his  wife  had  been  stolen  from  him 
by  a,  treacherous  Englishman,"  Nehal  answered 
hoarsely. 

"Yes,  by  Stafford,  John  Stafford's  father.  The 
issue  of  that  act  of  infidelity  was  a  child,  Lois,  who 
afterward  was  adopted  by  Caruthers,  partly  out  of 
friendship  for  Stafford,  partly  because  he  had  no 
children  of  his  own.  So  much,  at  least,  I  surmise. 
I  surmise,  too,  that  that  adoption  cost  him  his  wife's 
love  and  trust.  Perhaps,  ignorant  of  the  child's 
real  parentage,  she  believed  the  worst,  perhaps  there 
were  other  causes — be  it  as  it  may,  in  the  hour  of 
catastrophe  she  refused  to  share  the  general  fate. 


406  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

She  chose  to  throw  herself  upon  the  mercy  of  her 
mother's  people." 

"Her  mother's  people !"  Nehal  echoed  blankly. 

"There  was  native  blood  in  her  veins.  It  was  on 
that  account  that  Behar  Singh  spared  her.  She 
bitterly  learned  to  regret  her  change  of  allegiance. 
She  was  kept  close  prisoner,  and  six  months  after 
the  murder  of  her  husband  she  bore  him  a  son — 
you — Steven  Caruthers.  Behar  Singh,  himself  with- 
out an  heir,  took  the  child  from  her,  and  from  that 
hour  the  unfortunate  woman  became  insane.  Long 
years  she  was  kept  a  secret  and  wretched  captive, 
and  then  one  day  she  escaped,  and  in  her  wander- 
ings met  a  man — an  Englishman  who  was  then 
your  friend." 

"Travers!"  Nehal  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  Travers.  By  means  of  bribes  and  threats 
he  obtained  her  whole  history,  partly  from  her  own 
lips,  partly  from  her  gaolers.  But  he  told  no  one 
of  his  discovery." 

"Why  not?    How  dared  he  keep  silence?" 

"It  is  very  simple.  He  wished  to  marry  my  ward, 
Lois  Caruthers,  and  he  wished  to  have  her  money. 
As  I  have  said,  Caruthers  had  adopted  her  when 
her  mother,  the  Reni  Ona,  returned  to  her  own 
people,  and  had  made  her  his  heir  in  the  case  that 
he  should  have  no  children  of  his  own.  Had  your 
existence  been  known  Lois  would  have  been  penni- 
less. Travers  knew  this  and  kept  his  secret  from 
every  one  save  Stafford." 

"Why  did  he  tell  Stafford?" 

"He  had  to.  Stafford  and  Lois  loved  each  other — 
with  a  love  which  was  all  too  natural  and  explicable 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  407 

in  the  light  of  our  present  knowledge.  It  was  neces- 
sary that  he  should  be  made  aware  that  marriage 
between  them  was  impossible — that  they  were,  in 
fact,  the  children  of  the  same  father." 

"Stafford  kept  silence—" 

"He  had  promised.  And,  moreover,  he  believed 
it  kinder  to  hide  the  truth  from  Lois.  Only  at  the 
last  he  determined  to  speak  at  all  costs.  But  it  was 
too  late.  You  know — he  was  murdered  on  the  steps 
of  Travers'  house." 

Nehal  Singh  nodded.  An  even  deadlier  pallor  crept 
over  his  features. 

"I  know,"  he  said.  "It  was  Behar  Singh's  last 
vengeance.  God  knows,  my  hands  are  clean." 

"That  I  know.    You  are  your  father's  son." 

"And  the  proof  of  all  this?" 

"This  ring.  Take  it.  It  was  your  mother's. 
Travers  gave  it  to  me  when  he  made  his  confession. 
He  took  it  from  the  poor  mad  woman  at  their  first 
meeting.  Look  at  the  inscription.  It  bears  your 
mother's  and  father's  names." 

"And  Travers — ?"  The  Rajah  lifted  his  hand  in  a 
stern,  threatening  gesture. 

" — is  dead,"  was  the  grave  answer.  "He  died  an 
hour  ago,  in  his  wife's  arms." 

For  a  moment  a  profound  hush  hung  over  the 
great,  dimly  lighted  hall.  The  Rajah  knelt  down 
by  his  mother's  side  and  gently  replaced  the  ring 
upon  the  thin  lifeless  finger. 

"She  called  herself  a  traitor,"  he  said,  half  to 
himself.  "A  traitor  to  whom — to  what?" 

"To  the  strong  white  blood  that  was  in  her  veins. 
In  her  bitterness  at  the  real  or  imagined  wrongs 


408  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

that  had  been  done  her,  she  turned  away  from  the 
people  to  whom  she  belonged,  to  whom  she  was 
bound  by  all  the  ties  of  love  and  upbringing.  She 
disobeyed  the  voice  of  her  instinct.  And  you,  her 
son,  you,  too,  have  been  bitter;  you,  too,  must  listen 
to  the  call  of  the  two  races  to  whom  you  are  linked. 
Whom  will  you  obey  ?  You  stand  at  the  cross-ways 
where  you  must  choose — where  we  must  either 
part  or  join  hands  for  good  and  all.  The  road  back 
to  us  is  open,  is  still  open.  That  is  the  message  of 
peace  which  we  have  risked  our  lives  to  bring  you. 
Rajah,  Steven  Caruthers — for  so  I  now  call  you — 
I  plead  with  you — I  may  plead  with  you,  for  in  this 
hour  at  least  I  can  not  look  upon  you  as  an  adver- 
sary, but  as  the  son  of  this  unfortunate  woman — 
above  all,  of  my  friend.  I  plead  with  you  the  more 
because  I  owe  you  years  of  friendship.  I  am  not 
the  least  to  blame  that  you  fell  away  from  us  in  re- 
sentment and  bitterness.  I  could  have  shielded 
you  from  the  inevitable  pitfalls  that  beset  your 
path,  but — God  forgive  me  ! — my  prejudice  blinded 
me  and  I  held  back.  It  was  I  who  carried  you  away 
from  the  palace  on  that  night  when  you  were  left, 
a  helpless  child,  to  the  mercy  of  Behar  Singh's  ene- 
mies. Then  I  had  pity  enough — but  years  after  I 
held  back  the  hand  of  friendship  which  I  might 
have  offered  you.  Well,  I  am  punished,  twice  pun- 
ished, for  my  prejudice  and  blindness.  Is  it  too 
late  for  me  to  make  my  reparation?" 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  there  was  a  silence  of 
tense  expectation.  The  Rajah's  head  was  bowed. 
He  did  not  seem  to  see  the  Colonel's  movement. 

"You  can  not  think   I   am  pleading   with  you   to 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  409 

save  our  lives,"  Carmichael  went  on  with  grave 
dignity.  "We  have  fought  for  them.  An  hour  ago 
we  were  prepared  to  lay  them  down  without  com- 
plaint. We  are  not  the  less  prepared  now.  It  is 
not  for  us  I  am  speaking,  but  for  you.  Your  day 
as  Rajah  is  over — your  claim  to  rule  in  India  void. 
I  offer  you  instead  your  father's  name,  your  father's 
people,  your  father's  heritage.  The  other  road — 
well,  you  have  trodden  it,  you  know  it.  You  must 
choose.  Your  mother  chose — twenty-five  years  ago, 
in  the  same  hour  of  crisis,  blinded  by  the  same  bit- 
terness. She  chose  to  tear  the  bonds  of  love  and 
duty ;  she  ignored  the  true  voice  of  her  instinct.  It 
broke  her  heart.  The  same  crisis  stands  to-night 
before  you,  her  son.  What  will  you  do — Steven 
Caruthers?" 

The  Rajah  lifted  his  head.  The  struggle  was 
written  in  his  dark,  sunken  eyes  and  on  the  com- 
pressed lips. 

"I  can  not  desert  them,"  he  said  wearily.  "They  trust 
me — my  people  trust  me." 

"Who  are  your  people?"  was  the  swift  question. 
"You  must  choose." 

Again  the  same  silence,  the  same  waiting  while 
the  hand  of  fate  seemed  to  hover  above  them 
in  the  darkness.  Beatrice  left  her  place  at  the  dead 
woman's  side.  With  a  firm,  proud  step  she  came 
to  the  Rajah  and  took  his  hand  in  both  her  own. 
He  started  at  her  touch,  and  for  a  long  minute  his 
gaze  seemed  to  sink  itself  in  hers,  but  she  never 
wavered.  When  she  spoke  an  immeasurable  ten- 
derness rang  in  her  voice,  a  boundless  understand- 
ing and  sympathy. 


410  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"Steven — have  you  forgotten?  Long  ago  in  the 
old  temple?  Don't  you  remember  what  you  told 
me  then — how  you  loved  and  admired  us?  You 
called  us  the  world's  Great  People,  and  when  you 
spoke  of  our  heroes  there  was  something  in  your 
voice  which  thrilled  me.  Was  it  only  your  books, 
was  it  your  teachers — Behar  Singh — who  made  you 
feel  as  you  did?  When  you  came  among  us,  what 
led  you?  The  face  of  a  woman?  Was  it  only  that? 
Or  was  it  something  more? — the  call  of  a  great, 
wonderful  instinct?" 

His  eyes  were  riveted  on  her  face,  but  for  that 
moment  he  did  not  see  her.  He  did  not  see  the 
tears  that  glistened  on  her  cheeks.  He  was  look- 
ing straight  through  the  long  vista  of  the  past, 
right  back  to  the  first  hours  of  his  memory,  when 
he  had  wandered  alone  amidst  strange  faces,  a  ruler 
in  a  palace  which  had  never  ceased  to  be  his  prison, 
an  exile  whose  home  lay  only  in  strange,  fantastic 
dreams.  And  in  this  final  moment  he  seemed  to 
stand  high  above  the  past,  and  ever  swifter  and 
surer  to  trace  through  every  incident  of  his  life  one 
same  guiding  power.  Through  the  snares  of  Behar 
Singh's  hate-filled  temptations  it  had  led  onward; 
it  had  borne  him  to  the  temple — to  the  feet  of  the 
woman  he  was  to  love  through  every  torture  of  bit- 
ter deception;  it  had  swept  him  on  a  wave  of  im- 
pulse beyond  his  prison  walls  out  into  a  world 
which  he  at  last  hailed  as  his ;  and  now,  in  the  hour 
of  fiercest  despair,  of  deepest  loss,  it  was  drawing 
him  surely  and  swiftly  homeward.  The  past  van- 
ished. He  saw  again  the  face  lifted  to  his — he  saw 
the  tears — the  Colonel's  hand  outstretched,  waiting 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  411 

to  clasp  his  own.  He  heard  the  title  that  she  gave 
him  as  a  man  hears  a  long-forgotten  watchword. 

"You  are  English,  Steven.  You  are  English — you 
belong  to  us!" 

He  unfastened  the  sword  at  his  side.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  held  it  as  though  in  farewell.  But  there 
was  no  grief  on  his  face  as  he  laid  the  jeweled 
weapon  in  the  Colonel's  hand. 

"I  have  chosen,"  he  said.  "I  can  not  go  against  my 
people." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ENVOI 

WITH  the  surrender  of  one  man  the  great  Marut 
rising  came  to  an  end.  It  had  been  built  up  by  him 
and  on  him,  and  with  him  it  collapsed.  As  the  news 
reached  the  armed  thousands  encamped  about  the 
ruined  Station,  consternation  fell  upon  them.  There 
was  no  attempt  at  organization  or  resistance.  They 
believed  simply  that  Heaven  had  turned  against 
them  and  Vishnu  joined  hands  with  the  English- 
man, and  they  waited  to  hear  no  more.  What  had 
seemed  an  overwhelming  force  melted  away  as 
though  it  had  been  a  shadow,  and  in  the  jungle, 
slinking  along  the  lightless  highways,  or  huddling 
in  the  lonely  hovels  outside  Marut,  the  remnant  of 
Behar  Singh's  great  army  hid  from  the  hand  of  the 
destroyer.  They  had  followed  their  god,  and  their 
god  had  deserted  them.  All  hope  was  lost,  and 
with  the  fatalism  of  their  race  they  flung  their 
weapons  from  them  as  they  fled. 

Pending  the  decision  of  the  Government,  Nehal 
Singh,  now  Steven  Caruthers,  was  held  prisoner  in 
the  club-house  he  had  built  two  years  before.  Part 
of  the  returned  regiment  was  encamped  about  the 
surrounding  gardens,  in  order  to  prevent  all  at- 
tempt at  rescue,  but  the  precaution  was  a  mere  for- 
mality. Visitors  came  constantly.  There  was  not 

412 


ENVOI  413 

a  man  in  all  the  Station  who  was  not  anxious  to 
help  bury  the  past  and  to  hold  out  the  hand  of 
friendship  to  one  whom  at  the  bottom  of  their 
hearts  they  had  once  wronged  and  slighted.  Among 
them  Carmichael  and  Nicholson  were  the  chief. 
They  passed  many  hours  of  each  day  with  him,  and 
worked  steadily  and  enthusiastically  for  his  pardon 
and  release.  He  was  touched  and  grateful,  but  be- 
neath his  gratitude  there  still  lurked  the  demon 
of  unrest.  She  had  not  come — the  one  being  for 
whom  he  waited — she  had  sent  no  word.  He  knew 
that  her  mother  lay  dying — above  all  things  he 
knew  that  on  the  great  day  of  the  attack  she  had 
stood  resolutely  between  him  and  death — but  noth- 
ing, no  explanation  or  assurance,  calmed  the  hidden 
trouble  of  his  mind.  After  all,  it  had  been  pity — 
or  remorse — not  love. 

Thus  three  weeks  passed.  The  Colonel  had  spent 
the  day  with  him  discussing  the  future,  arranging 
for  the  transference  of  Lois'  fortune  into  his  un- 
willing hands,  and  now,  toward  nightfall,  he  was 
once  more  alone,  wearied  in  body  and  soul.  For 
the  first  time  since  his  surrender  his  sense  of  quiet 
and  release  from  an  immense  burden  was  gone.  He 
was  still  alone.  He  felt  now  that  he  would  always 
be  alone,  for  there  was  but  one  who  could  fill  the 
blank  in  his  life.  And  she  had  not  come.  He  did 
not  and  could  not  blame  her.  Who  was  he  that  a 
woman  should  join  her  lot  to  his?  An  English- 
man truly,  but  one  over  whose  birth  and  youth 
there  hung  a  shadow,  perhaps  a  curse  such  as  had 
darkened  his  mother's  life  and  the  life  of  all  those 
in  whose  veins  there  flows  an  alien  blood.  She 


4H  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

must  not  even  think  that  any  link  from  the  past  bound 
her.  She  must  be  free— quite  free  to  choose.  Wearily 
he  seated  himself  at  his  table  and  took  his  pen. 

"You  have  been  the  great  guiding  light  of  my 
life,"  he  wrote  to  her.  "You  will  always  be,  be- 
cause I  can  not  learn  to  forget.  But  for  you  it  would 
be  easier  and  better  to  forget.  You  will  be  happier 
— "  And  then  he  heard  the  door  open,  and  she 
stood  before  him.  The  words  that  he  had  meant 
to  write  rushed  to  his  lips,  but  no  further.  Moved 
by  a  common  impulse,  they  advanced  to  meet  each 
other,  and  the  next  moment  she  was  in  his  arms. 
Neither  spoke.  It  seemed  as  though,  once  face  to 
face,  there  could  be  no  doubts,  no  misunderstand- 
ings between  them.  Their  love  was  wordless,  but 
it  had  spoken  in  a  silence  more  eloquent,  more  com- 
plete than  words  could  ever  have  been. 

"I  could  not  come  before,"  she  said,  after  a  little. 
"I  could  not  leave  her.  She  was  only  at  peace  when 
I  held  her  hand.  She  was  very  happy  at  the  last — 
now  it  is  all  over." 

He  held  her  closer  to  him,  and  she  clung  to  him, 
not  sadly  or  wearily,  but  like  a  strong  woman  who 
had  fought  and  won  the  thing  she  fought  for. 

"It  was  Fate  after  all,"  he  said,  under  his  breath. 
"She  meant  us  for  each  other." 

She  looked  up  at  him.  Though  suffering,  physi- 
cal and  mental,  had  drawn  its  ineffaceable  lines  upon 
her  face,  it  had  also  added  to  her  beauty  the  charm 
of  strength  and  experience. 

"I  knew  long  ago  that  it  was  Fate,"  she  answered. 
"Do  you  remember  that  first  evening?  You  told 
me  that  people  do  not  drift  aimlessly  into  each 


ENVOI  415 

other's  lives.  Even  then,  against  my  will,  I  felt 
that  it  was  true.  Afterward  I  was  sure.  I  had 
entered  into  your  life  in  a  moment  of  frivolous  reck- 
lessness, but  you  had  entered  into  mine  with  another 
purpose,  and  I  could  not  rid  myself  of  you.  Your 
hold  upon  me  was  strong.  It  grew  stronger,  do 
what  I  would,  and  the  farce  became  deadly  earnest." 

"For  me  it  was  always  deadly  earnest,"  he  said. 
"When  I  first  saw  you  standing  before  the  idol,  it 
was  as  though  a  wall  which  had  surrounded  my  life 
had  been  overthrown,  and  that  you  had  come  to  be 
my  guide  and  comrade  in  a  new  and  unknown 
world." 

"And  then  I  failed  you." 

His  eyes  met  hers  thoughtfully. 

"Did  you?  Now  I  look  back,  I  am  not  sure.  I 
had  to  believe  you  when  you  said  you  had  deceived 
me  and  played  with  me.  I  had  to  force  myself  to 
despise  you.  Yet,  when  you  confronted  me  in  the 
bungalow,  I  felt  suddenly  that  you  needed  to  ex- 
plain nothing.  I  understood." 

"Did  you  understand  that  I  had  only  deceived 
myself?  I  told  myself  that  it  was  a  farce  played 
at  your  expense.  But — Heaven  knows — I  believe  it 
ceased  to  be  a  farce  from  the  first  hour  I  saw  you. 
You  believed  in  me  so.  No  one  had  believed  in  me 
before — I  had  never  believed  in  myself  or  in  man, 
or  in  God,  either.  But  I  had  to  believe  in  you,  and 
afterward — the  rest  came."  She  drew  herself  up- 
right and  looked  him  full  in  the  dark  eyes.  "Steven, 
do  you  trust  me?"  He  nodded.  "As  you  did  on 
that  day  when  you  told  me  that  you  owed  me  all 
that  you  were  and  ever  would  be?" 


416  THE  NATIVE  BORN 

"As  then,  Beatrice." 

She  smiled  gravely. 

"You  do  right  to  trust  me.  You  have  made  me 
worthy  of  your  trust." 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  shoulder,  and  led  her 
gently  on  to  the  verandah.  The  night  had  fallen  dark 
and  starless.  Through  the  black  veil  they  saw  the 
gleam  of  bivouac  fires  and  heard  the  voices  of  men 
calling  to  one  another,  and  the  clatter  of  piled  arms. 
They  remained  silent,  after  the  storm  and  stress  of 
the  past,  content  to  be  together  and  at  peace.  They 
knew  that  the  long  night  was  over  and  that  the 
dawn  had  broken. 

When  the  Colonel  entered  they  did  not  hear  him, 
and  without  speaking  he  turned  back  and  closed 
the  door  after  him.  In  his  hand  he  held  a  telegram 
ordering  the  deposition  of  Nehal  Singh,  Rajah  of 
Marut,  and  the  recognition,  pardon  and  release  of 
one  Steven  Caruthers,  Englishman.  But  he  crept 
away  with  the  long-hoped-for  message. 

"Time  enough,"  he  thought.    "They  are  happy." 

And  if  beneath  his  heartfelt  rejoicing  there  lurked 
the  shadow  of  bitterness,  who  shall  blame  him? 
There  was  one  dearer  to  him  than  his  own  child 
could  have  been,  for  whose  wounded  heart  there 
seemed  as  yet  no  balsam.  And  yet,  unknown  to 
hifh,  for  her  also  the  dawn  was  breaking.  For  even 
as  he  crept  away  with  knitted  brows,  sharing  her 
burden  with  her  by  the  power  of  love  and  sympathy, 
she  held  in  her  hands  the  first  herald  of  a  happier 
future. 

"What  you  have  told  me  I  accept — for  now," 
Adam  Nicholson  had  written.  "You  are  wise  to 


ENVOI  417 

travel  with  the  Carmichaels.  It  will  do  you  good. 
I,  who  was  prepared  to  wait  my  whole  life  for  you, 
can  have  patience  for  a  little  longer.  I  know  that 
you  suffer  and  as  yet  I  may  not  help  you.  Your 
pride  separates  us,  but  your  pride  is  a  little  thing 
compared  to  my  love.  What  is  your  birth  or  par- 
entage to  me?  You  say  it  would  overshadow  my 
whole  life,  darken  my  career?  It  might  try.  That 
would  be  one  thing  more  to  fight  against.  We  have 
come  to  India  to  sweep  away  its  prejudices;  let  us 
first  sweep  away  our  own.  We  have  come  to  bring 
freedom ;  let  us  first  make  ourselves  free.  It  will  be 
a  good  battle,  but  it  will  not  darken  my  life,  Lois. 
Do  you  think  opposition  and  struggle  could  darken 
rny  life?  Surely  you  know  me  better.  Do  but 
stand  at  my  side,  and  there  will  be  no  darkness.  I 
am  not  a  boy.  I  am  a  man  who  sees  before  him  long 
years  of  labor,  and  who  needs  the  one  woman  who 
can  help  him.  Is  our  cathedral  forgotten?  I  do 
not  believe  it.  You  are  not  the  woman  to  forget. 
The  time  is  not  far  off  when  we  will  crown  our 
cathedral  hand  in  hand.  Only  when  your  love  dies 
can  the  barrier  between  us  become  insurmountable. 
If  your  love  lives,  then,  as  surely  as  there  is  a  God 
in  Heaven,  I  will  come  and  fetch  you,  Lois — my 
wife." 

And  the  tears  that  filled  her  eyes  as  she  read  the 
boldly  written  words  were  no  longer  the  tears  of 
grief.  Her  love  for  him  had  been  the  rock  upon 
which  her  life  was  built.  It  was  imperishable.  She 
knew  thus  that  she  would  not  have  long  to  wait 
until  his  coming. 

THE  END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FAaLITY 


A     000126850     7 


